The beast in every dream is the same—
the one we cannot talk to, the one we cannot blame.
The beast gains sympathy from everyone;
we falter, but the beast, inscrutable, goes on.
The indifferent universe is the beast
for those who don’t believe in God.
The least their intelligence can do
is to not believe what must be—but doesn’t make it through.
There is nothing that has to be, to them.
Things exist for them—which they can see partially.
Wander by yonder moon into my poetry
which was yours—even in the fog of antiquity.
Poem, there are other substances in the past,
which is why you still exist—
strange chemistry which makes you last!
It is this mist which makes others perish
and you live, yes, yes, you
breathing the finality of everything true.