Listen, as one sound moves around the projection of another.
Listen to the colloquy of sparrows, arabesques of orbiting moths.
The pious eye is reliable transportation.
But what does this have to do with God?
It has been an exciting morning:
I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole.
Forgive me, or don’t forgive me—what do I care?
I’m tired of asking for forgiveness;
I am tired of being obsequious all the time.
Have you seen how sad goat’s eyes are? Look into mine.
Longing would be so much easier
without the other person obstructing it.
Yet life is beautiful, if you attain it with beautiful money.
There is a hole in the garden. It’s empty. I envy it.
All the stars are cowards: they lie to us
about their time of death.
Erotic love: what a concept.
Everything’s sublime or nothing is:
the brain humming its electric language,
touching something in a state of becoming.
I fear I am writing a requiem for myself.
When I lie next to you, I miss the world.
“Omega Nebula” first appeared in Boston Review, September 19, 2019.