You’re right, the world is lost.  But wait--

here on the table this pepper alone

until you shake it

is night and stars by the million,

your dream vacation in space---

all your body's sad comedy suddenly weightless,

tumbling along, the way lost satellites do.

Nowhere they have to be...

And afterward, whatever the hand has earthquaked

up, that little grey storm

out there beyond the crook of the arm,

is yours.  You wrecked it.


                                                                      National Poetry Review #11 (2012)