Nonetheless the clouds go where they will
and as they will. There’s no direction.
This does not, however, argue that the gods
are dead. Far from it. See them struggle
to contend with matter. We could matter less
and go our own ways promptly.
But the heavens want us badly in their fold.
They want the whole damn thing to matter.
Mostly we believe the clocks must tick, the skies
must open, seas must churn the same old stories,
lapping up shores like some good meal.
A few of us, however, sweep the world
with zigzag lightning of rude thoughts.
Low little gods, we make the page
a broad expanse where we rule roughly,
shifting things and words behind the things.
It’s heavy work, but someone has to do it.
Somebody must rumble and contend.