So swirl on, Cosmos, smug in your speckled, insolent skin!
We’ll be fine—really.
We’ll do our parts—rising & falling, living & dying,
Loving & unloving until those damned cows return
Festooned with leis and garlands from some Hawaiian Hindu romp
And full of fine milk from the teat sweet as ice cream.
You go about your business, & we’ll go about ours.
We’ll strum our guitars & arrange our materials,
Compose our stories & movies & poems & essays & plays,
Pretend to be people made of these words & others,
Spin on our toes until an audience’s heads spin but
We find ourselves at the center of a turning world,
A world that will hopefully go on—please?
Cosmos—are you still there, and listening?
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