In the quiet of the night we ponder,
Gazing at the stars with wonder.
Are we the only ones to tread,
On this blue sphere where life is spread?

Are we truly lonely, on this blue marble sphere?
This pale dot, a mote of dust, adrift, with naught to hear?
No alien footprint lingers, on this shore whereon we roam,
Are we the only story, whispered back to home?

Crusoe on his island, a lonely searching soul,
Stumbled on a footprint, a story yet untold.
A mark upon the sand, a whisper in the breeze,
Proof of another presence, carried on the seas.

Moon-dusted boots still linger there,
While Mars rovers tread with mechanical flair.
Dinosaurs' tracks from eons past,
But cosmic visitors? Unsurpassed.

From ants to giants, all leave a trace,
But where's the mark of otherworldly grace?
Like Crusoe on his island shore,
We search for signs, but find no more.

Happisburgh whispers secrets, of giants from the past,
Their footprints etched in stone, forever meant to last.
Eve's delicate impression, a testament to time,
Of ancestors who walked this Earth, beneath a different clime.

On this mote of dust we stand,
Scanning skies with outstretched hand.
Are we the only ones who roam?
Or is the cosmos also home?

The human cylinders
Revolving in the enervating dust
That wraps each closer in the mystery
Of singularity
Among the litter of a sunless afternoon
Having eaten without tasting
Talked without communion
And at least two of us
Loved a very little
Without seeking
To know if our two miseries
In the lucid rush-together of automatons
Could form one opulent well-being

Simplifications of men
In the enervating dusk
Your indistinctness
Serves me the core of the kernel of you
When in the frenzied reaching-out of intellect to intellect
Leaning brow to brow            communicative
Over the abyss of the potential
Concordance of respiration
Shames
Absence of corresponding between the verbal sensory
And reciprocity
Of conception
And expression
Where each extrudes beyond the tangible
One thin pale trail of speculation
From among us we have sent out
Into the enervating dusk
One little whining beast
Whose longing
Is to slink back to antediluvian burrow
And one elastic tentacle of intuition
To quiver among the stars

The impartiality of the absolute
Routs           the polemic
Or which of us
Would not
Receiving the holy-ghost
Catch it         and caging
   Lose it
Or in the problematic
Destroy the Universe
With a solution.