It isn't really
very funny—
when stacked
next to eons
and light years' worth
of nothing,
the tiniest thing
cannot help but be
something:
that minuscule cut
on the tip
of your tongue;
those grace notes
which tug a song blue
as it's sung—
even the one
little bruised spot
you've got
on that impressive suit
of armor
which used to be
your heart.
That's the part
of you that proves,
despite the
empty gloom
and dark
parading through
this universe,
that you'll not
pass through it
undetected;
you'll soften
and rot
before you could do that,
like a true work
of art—or a bad piece
of fruit.
