Dear constellation of which I am only

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.

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