Griefstricken,
Cosmically, I blunder.
And to wander about them smitten
underneath the thunder:
spun wonder
with the grace of a chicken.
The buttons
of our daughters are unraveling,
their forgotten undersomethin's
fought harder than a star's unsaddling.
I dabble with the gods a lot, rambling
about the Jupiter muffins.
The grace of god,
But what is it (translation: what is he?)?
A first cause,
FLAWed? Great Probability?
Does that even mean anything?
Hope, I ought not.
What is the standard of perfection?
What can be infinite?
We are the first cause of these word-inventions--
abstractions as illogical as universal minutes.
But wait, I isn't finished.
Did the matador defy convention?
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