Friday, March 11, 2022


Of the hundreds 
of billions 
who have ever existed, 

few words get written 
only for you.

It sounds lonely, 
but the consequences 
of those that do

are both huge 
and automatic—

firstly: you 
transcend "you" 

and transform
into a vestibule; 

second: the transmitter 
falls pitiably in love—
not with you

but the holes 
of your pupils 

which received, 
then contained, 
then imputed his letters. 

From then on, whenever 
your companionless soul 
tarries out  

past the boundaries 
of its atoms 
in longing for its goal,

understanding is the gravity 
which tempts it gently 
back to Earth, 

and maybe this world 
still feels small
after all.