to think that infinity
is a hoax,
having certainly
never seen it in this star-
deficient cosmos
(where the precious
few which we
can still spot
have long since
exploded
all alone—and
in silence).
And god knows
there's no end to
the obnoxious
finitude of our bodies,
where, once, we were told
we'd find
unlimited wisdom,
but where the only enduring
or unbroken thing
is the shallowness
of our need to be
reborn once again
to this mean,
and this cramped
and diminished situation,
so that we can
count up from scratch
now and then
all the loves lost
and the pain
we can stand
using just
our two hands.
