Apr. 12th, 2010

boutell: (Default)
Our appetite exceeds our tiny purse.
The wallet's small, its hollow swallow palls.
We've lost the nerve to cross the universe—
To trace the walls, to stalk the marble halls

Of elder gods (but how the capsule plods
From Earth to Earth!) A thousand human births
From accident to accident. We saw
A spectral signature, we judged its worth

And launched a tightly bounded epigram,
Rotating like a proper villanelle,
And finally the children snapped their cams
At some not quite inhabitable hell,

And called it home (there was no other place).
We are not ready for the depths of space.

September 2014

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