your greedy,
ravenous eyes,
and look
for all the ways you've
been abusing
the sky—taking it
for granted
that light
would always find
your feelings,
that your world
would always
have a ceiling.
Now, in this
manufactured dark,
there's no canopy,
no witness,
no stars—
none of those twinkling
coins made of silver
which you heretofore
used to believe
were yours
to name, to mine,
and to explore.
And to think
of it—this
is just a quick
simulation
of the way things
really always were—
not reflective
or generous,
but not harsh
or cruel or
disparaging either.
This
is the necessary
pitch-dark you are,
the eyeless
fear that compels you
to care,
the posture
of the universe
before
you ever got here.
