Words

A soft fluttering of delicate wings
tentatively emerge
from the infinity of the paper.
Like those of a moth, quivering
into the domain of the deck lamp
and dissolving, again,
into the darkness.
Always the insufferable default.

No one recognizes the moment
when a fly gives up on life:
its last twitch deafened by the silence
of the its cage.

Spoken word
organizes the writhing
turmoil of space,
but for only as long as it is heard.
Then it dissolves into the noise
where meaning is as permanent
as electricity is visible:
enough for the illusions of the mind.

The moment is all we have,
just as a goldfish has only survival;
a rock has only atoms and
a human only thoughts.

Communication exchanges moments:
a displacement.
A collection of unities that
allow us to imagine
humans are more than
a dusting of sand
on the endless universe.

Although that is all we really are.