by Emily

What if a hand could furnish the universe?

The grains of basmati are sowed and sold,

Rare in some cosmic economy.

Little rice.

Not even a louse is less significant.

My sorrows like grains of scorching sand filling me,

shielding my heart from the hooks of real beauty.

Circling in rows.

Each word ringing in tune.

Gathering this mystery, the light of the moon.

Discular nothing, refracting the night.

A voice without ground.

Space, I bow to You.