From that majestic throne,
Far above the highest mountain,
An index finger is knowingly extended
To an indifferent naked male, and the world is completed.
Why this gift?
This inconceivable, nearly impossible,
Rearrangement of the furniture
That we call the cosmos?
Was God, for whom there is no time,
No past, no future,
And all things are known,
Setting a stage for one alternative?
Are we the actors
Who perform in this instant,
Playing an imagined dominant role
In our invisibly small corner of one universe?
How can our role matter
When we continue to discover
The expanding vastness of space,
And the absurdity of our puffed vanity?
Yet we have the image of God
Anointing that first human,
Awakening the possibility that
We have purpose, or a dream of such.
And is there really any difference?
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