Coincidental Superposition Due to Your Own Position

Can a gas cloud eat a galaxy?
No, like all of your constellations,

It’s just a feature of your planet,
Spinning where it is, and your habit

Of looking out from your position
At apparent arrangements of light.

Touch is so methodical
Compared to the sense of smell,

The scoops of sound, scope of light.
You’d think language would lavish

Love on the sequential kin
It has in the sense of touch.

But no, it’s sight first,
Then hearing, then smell.

Even taste gets more.
Touch comes last of all,

Rarest sense in poems.
If you could finger

That constellation,
That blurred nebula

With the sensitive
Palps of the dark god,

Your perspective
Would change slowly,

Until you knew
What you can’t now.