try to think of it in miles or feet.
How many trips to buy a shirt or shoes?
That speed your shot goes in a game of skeet—
the pellets are not fast at all. They ooze.
Before and after all our lives, the stars
explode, black holes collide and spread in trillions
while we eat breakfast, read a book, drive cars.
We live our tiny lives in modest millions.
Yet we, and maybe only we, observe
and think of it. Is that way we serve?
THE HAND
A box of matches is a homely thing,
a drawer that's movable in which there lies
a handy squad of soldiers sleeping cold.
But fumble one to hand and scratch its head,
and it will leap to life, an ardent plasma
avid to destroy a wooden world,
or light a candle's wick or else a stove.
It is no better and no worse than men
who love to build and also to destroy.
What is this cosmos but a field of gleams
that light a little while and then go cold?
What lives is temporal and loves to die.
And yet a trillion stars replace the dead.
Where is the hand that scratches their cold head?
THE BUNCH OF GRAPES AND THE SON
The sun, with all those planets revolving around
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