AN ODE ON MY 41ST BRIRTHDAY
Earth is beautiful
when
it’s not trying to kill you.
Infinite
Earths interacting weakly
defy seeking
one in which we can
prove
our worth, our own skin.
I liked being young.
Not
having plans or random pain.
I
still like it; still looking out from
the proscenium
of eye socket, nothing
has
changed except for everything.
Murmurs at night
become
recognisable in retrospect.
Memories
of mouths like the “o”
in “gold” not “old,”
oculogyric in the moment,
fighting
for breaths as if drowning.
Orbit of the eye,
forty-first
orbit of our small primary
wheeling
through, displaced,
the random universe,
arbitrary, finding in its arc
a
purpose between dark and dark.
Orbit of the I
blessed
with blissful anonymity.
Wisdom
born over overseeing
PR and marketing
crush the fine wine of hurt
talent
from many an introvert.
Entropy increases
despite
biology’s digressions.
A
bolthole on failed Mars
no confidence inspires.
Life died there. Three billion years
later
we evolved here to care.
Here now tumbling
from
the cradle, endlessly orbiting
our
unexceptional sun
until cremated once
and
with Nova Sol, twice,
if
there is a Big Bang, which is nice.
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