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.
