unearthing poems
fractions of the self
tug at the edges of awareness,
like those frayed glimpses caught
in the shadows of clouds,
or the voices sometimes
heard in the wind;
all of which beg
an answer to the obvious:
is this me?
is this me?
is this me?
am i this?
am i this?
am i this?
I think we would all be less lonely
if we could hear shooting stars
as they streaked across our skies.
Both day and night,
we would all hear the roar
of the thousands of objects
irradiating in our presence.
Rather than just providing
a fleeting spectacle
for the lucky few
who remember to walk
away from their homes at night,
and sit transfixed
under skies so dark and cold
that their knuckles ache
with the knowledge
that our lives are minuscule
blips in the ether.
Instead,
we’d all hear the chorus
of the infinite voices
singing out
that life is in constant collision
with other celestial beings.
I know I would
feel less lonely,
at least.