I was waiting for the sky to darken.
For our particular world to slow
into a ballad so I could listen
to the wind and the many verbs for it.
How it funnels past the gaps
in our fingers. The same gust
once caught in a sail, blowing
a nameless explorer into more water
and more wind. How can I not think now
of the world’s minor inventors?
Take the word brisk and the joy
that comes with watching
our existence acquire
a tiny sliver of precision.
I don’t think we have a choice.
The world is a beautiful place
and we are overwhelmed
by default. All that’s left
is choosing which parts of it
to carry into death. As for me,
I need this night and its winds
like another man needs sparrows.
I need the silence and the quiet
combustion of stars.
Tell me: How can anyone speak
confronted by this sky, this splatter
of cosmos? What can we do
but count the holes under the heavens
and never finish?
The world is tiny and brisk.
We are all alone.