Convo

In an ongoing conversation with the universe.

A hushed tone, 

Reminiscent of telling mom I dented her Nissan.

A universe borne from density.

A wide world brimming 

with a sense of peace I yearn for.

I worry often about the need to arrange 

the internal world into a sense of coherence,

but alas,

we are products of an explosion;

beings attached to an entropic writer

sitting between our ears.

There will never be coherence,

and that’s fine,

you and I just thought about

stardust and death and freedom and wine and bread and roses and nuclear war and peace through mortar fire.

What else can?