We are tiny subsets of phenomena
That the cosmos generated, through which
It now begs, interrogates, and chatters
Sadly, happily, to itself. I’m inclined to wonder
If it’s not even lonelier, for all that. Speechless,
It speaks through us, who demand answers
Of its speechlessness that isn’t us, that as yet
Has no answer isn’t us. And so, it has to listen
As we make up gods and interlocutors that are
Not, not the quiet cosmos that can’t answer us.
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