dust traveling with the lightest of hopes
on the outer fringes of your periphery—
please explain how it is that every
deflection overcomes me; and further,
how it is possible even the tiniest
injustice could wound with the weight
of entire galaxies. Who was it said
we spin in space, cold and apart,
edges not touching? I choose
not to believe, unable to separate
flower from myth, the symbol from
its stem, every small trembling
that only wants an accounting.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.