We all suffer pareidolia, painting a face
On the cosmos, spotting figures in clouds
And constellations, expecting an answer
To our questions, even if not to our prayers.
Don’t make fun of Mother Theresa in a bun,
Holy Mother Mary glancing shyly from toast,
Not unless you’re willing to assume nothing
Of human nature inheres in the nonhuman,
That whatever you mean to the rest of us,
Your fellow breathing bipeds while we move
And judge each other, you moving among us,
There’s nothing personal in whatever occurs,
Nothing. This cosmos is strictly business.
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