Like not the wayward urge,
taste not the open door;
it’s too early to think of myth,
too late apology.

When was it ever promised
that the world would
spin just so, to please even
the least of us?

Oh, yes, tremble, by all means,
at the darkening sky,
but don’t imagine it’s just for you.
You have not the significance
of the least comma.

The universe stops not
its droning hum to check
your preference, the world suits
neither you nor me,

not the grave winds of change,
nor the plodding steadfast crag;
neither is it what it seems,
and no less are you.