four question

who among us is not scattered dust

blowing through the forest and hills?

who more important than the enameled

blackened night and winded stars?

 

where do we go in the harried minutes

between the rising of day, 

the density of sleep,

and working as pretenders in the garden?

 

who are we to ask rounded questions

while around us elevated to disbelief,

garish in speech and gesture, 

our small gods fail us?