So, easily the world rotates on axis --
still -- as it had before,
and makes its slow revolutions
as dictated by the sun.
Our frail little existence --
paltry.
While millions of stars are held in place
and glow from light-years away,
we lie
we laugh
we tire
we die.
And the marrow of life
has yet to be extracted --
Our bones brittle
behind counters,
cubicles and desks.
The man signs another check.
The woman wipes the table
with a rag soaked in grimy water
so shallow in the bucket,
you can see to the bed.
And returning it, she wonders
how full and dark it is
in bodies
outside her little tributary.
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