Through all the indifferent
Millennia from the
First Millisecond
To where we stand
On fresh-grown legs,
No quark in the cosmos
Has moved on orders
Of any god. No god ever
Has intervened to make
A Holocaust or flood,
No wind, no wave,
Not anything.
No healing, no sparing,
No rescue ever
Has been sent
In blessing or mercy
From Elsewhere.
A Geometry of Conscience
Is there out there, Much as the suns are, Immanent, A rightness And wrongness Of things, A geometry Of conscience Really resident In the cosmic lattice Beyond the chemistry Of our minds?
Nearly All We See From Here
Nearly all we see from here out to the edge of light has lain unborn through the vastness of geologic time, never having grieved — never having felt a thing.
