Of this vast, radiant universe,
 I am of but one star.
Would the panoply be
 precious strewn
 were not each glimmer a signal of richness?
Of the multitude of criaturas on this round world,
 I am but one being.
Would humanity be
 a proud species
 were not each a beacon?
I count my cells,
        my breaths,
        my sunrises and sunsets,
        my schemes and dreams,
        my depths and feelings,
        my world that I take up
           and embroider.
Each human is created from other humans,
each star from stars.
I have craved to be more human, more starry.
I let it be
and the riches without
 are become within.
I beg no more.
Let me digest what I partake in.


Those indiscretions I was so careful to demur,
they are for the taking.
The paltry world bursts into color.
My so-called evil is humane life.
Everything is good like it should be.
My heart grows in this soil.
The evil name-calling drove me to starving;
I was desperate enough to take what ill-suited me.
What suits me is enough;
 perhaps everything
  in its own place.


Universe, thank you for the flash flood
 that canceled the trains
 that got me back to the metro
where I find myself
 as the sunlight streams
 sitting behind two young friends
one with a freckled shoulder
 bare but for straps, black chemise over scarlet bra,
 and a head whose mane is wild multi-colored orange,
and the other saying
 “I have seen a lot of things, too…”
 from the back of her neck’s tatoo.