Little boy beneath


The dun-thatch questions,


What let now impedes your eye


And crowds your brow to puzzle?


The wall before you


Bending your fingers back


Stands our common foe,


Harder than space bits,


Thicker than light,


For all its porous claims.


It admits no breach


Nor bears are infant's insult.



You are the keep of softness now,


Pliant as the petaled rose


Without its armor,


Charged to feed your ward well


And be its constant buffer,


For your brown time shall know


The conspiracy of particles.


Do not let


The walls beat down


The Frenchman's faith,


Nor suffer Greeks


To rob you at the grave.



Were there a god who willed us will,


Then might we as one then,


Bearers of the holy touch,


Like the white unfeeling nova


Burst by choice and spread


At the greater speed


To settle sentient dust


In vacant cosmic corners,


Wanting still the answers


To our questions.