Peculiarly
stumped as we are
spinning millions of miles from a star
we're perhaps at our best
when we give it a rest –
and accept: to exist is bizarre.
spinning millions of miles from a star
we're perhaps at our best
when we give it a rest –
and accept: to exist is bizarre.
our passionate wants: in so doing
we conjure up love
like a dove-smitten dove
or a cow who enjoys her own mooing.
And although there’s no start and no end
to these reeling perplexities: send
us a bit of a verse
and we’ll use it to curse
the great dark for a time, and suspend
disbelief for a little while more
and imagine that we can explore
or discover some truth
‘til the Universe (ruth-
less!) indifferently shows us the door.
.
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