A Measure of Insignificance
time pauses, perhaps no longer
than it takes for a dust speck
to trek the space between
your forefinger and thumb held apart
a measure of insignificance.
there's a chance you might miss this
if your blind spot widens enough
to block your third eye, or
your tunnel vision narrows your focus
on the mirage you call success
will visionaries call your attention
to the Green Flash, the halo of the eclipse,
and meteors that fell like the Lion's tears
while you were busy with your mundane missions;
these missionaries are visiting you, offering a revision
you won't find on television,
an undiscovered country not shown
on the Discovery channel . . .
panels of experts will argue
so they don't have to agree,
and all their degrees are forgeries
doctored by people who believe that
the alphabet begins with PhD.
don't you know the Mystery exists to twist
your feeble rationality into question marks?
don't you know that beyond the fall of dark
are terrors that beggar description?
don't you know there are places where
time pauses, causing your watches to lie?
don't you know that angels and demons wait
with bated breath
to see what you will make of this,
while men with narrow minds
gather around wide tables
and count deaths like deutschmarks
and print labels for "acceptable losses?"
what you call "history" is barely
an ellipsis in the sentence, the
infinite second that God can measure
with the space between
His forefinger and thumb,
before He points at you, calls your bluff,
and says, "Time's up."
will open its books
and bid you to look within
and read the backwards story
of the fallen history
of these awkward creatures
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