And I don’t really care about the stories,

the glories, the news, the newsweeks,

the ephemeral, the local, the trivial,

the important, the global, the central,

the unreal, the surreal, the terminal.

It’s the point of the thorn that matters to me,

the path of a crack on a coffee-cup,

the rhythm in the dance of a snowflake,

the vengeance of a grain of pollen,

the loneliness of a firewood’s splinter,

the confidence of a seed’s outfit,

the shape of the widow’s tear,

the shake of the mother’s hip,

the wrinkles on the old man’s palms,

the shiver of the lover’s lips;