the universe


The Universe
Donald Illich
Everything we say about it
is wrong: it loves wet kisses,
cuddles galaxies around us,
finds reasons to give hope
against entropy. Last year
we hated it, called black holes
its brains, the constellations
pretty dresses that didn’t show
how it was an ugly pageant
contestant after all. Don’t
blame it if it compacts us,
not expanding but dwindling down
until all we can say is get us
off this tiny island. If we
were to be honest we’d say
we deserve anything that
happens: we who took chances
on not smelling the roses,
hammered our heads into desks
until the surroundings didn’t change
but we did: grabbing stars,
harassing huge fistfuls of night.