Virgin in the Carnivore’s Corner

Dots of light among dots of light.
Massive furnaces nothing much
To do with each other, such vast
Distances. Human thrills and chills.

As absurd as all mnemonics
For features of the night sky are,
The stories of many cultures,
Preoccupied with local fears,

Local mores, and general
Animal interests in mates,
In kinds of prey and predators,
Maybe make a point for artists.

Just give up on the universe,
Give up on all the greater world,
Give up portraying the cosmos.
Concerns that aren’t human concerns—

Salacious crimes and punishments,
Hierarchies, lusts, and violence,
Origin tales, tales of the tribe—
Will never make successful art.

You write for us or for the dust,
And dust you’ll be, and dust can’t read—
That’s the people’s motto, motto
Of every last vicious elite.

Still, the weird waysider looks up
And considers the great stories
Just to quietly reject them.
We are dust. We’ll be dust. Night’s dust.