Our deeds seem writ so large to us
down at the level of the dust,
where unseen in the universe
we live whole chapters, line and verse,
and with great import, carry on
as if we’re noticed, here or gone,
by other whorls of energy
that call themselves, too, you or me,
and dance, imagining the tune
they hear comes from a single room
in that small house in which they’re born
so small, so weak, so uniform
that just to prove themselves alive
and for their species to survive
they must, like us, cry out so loud
that somewhere out there in the cloud
much larger things than you or I
will care much if we live or die.
02 MAR 2017
