Sometimes, from a precarious perch for frail
Bones, a human might survey the torn skin
Of the world, great beast of a world to tiny
Humans but minuscule pebble in the ocean
Of all nights, and think, pathetically, naturally,
Perhaps the great poor beast on which we
Ride all our picayune days itself is suffering.
Suffering from us, yes, alright, yes, but more
Poignantly, suffering for us, its sad children
So mad with happiness and anger and glee.
A human might not signify except to other
Humans, the signifying monkeys one and all,
But still the dumb beast below us, spinning
Ever so slightly more slowly each turn, might
Groan below the gaudy clouds, might hurt.
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