Periodically, I like to stand aghast
at the prodigious depths
of my own
shallowness—
gaping
up at the height
of sky,
which ripples—like a kite
with the wind of all
our
collective longing—
to realize
that it's
much closer by
than I often surmise;
and that
mine
is such a cold sort of compassion.
For the lean fact is—
sharp teeth
just want to bite things,
and nothing they find
can ever be foreign
or bitter;
because there's
only thing
that's really off-putting,
only one thing
that's truly
alien—
and that's
the idea—
of true meaning.
