there are days
when cool water laps gently at my feet
only to tear away
what little I have to stand on.

and even though
the ocean’s glassy surface is beautiful,
the salt still stings
the slashes on my ankles.

there are moments
when I stand upon millions of grains of sand
only to stare out at the water and realize
that I am a grain myself:

pulled and pushed
to and fro
on a rock hurtling through space
in a galaxy that I call home
although I do not understand it.

the sun sinks and the light grows dim
and within moments
the stars wink out
from inky blackness —
and I do not know their names.

I do not know their names
any more than I know the name
of the beggar who I tossed a coin today,
his clothes smelling of sweat
and his empty eyes cast downward.

I do not know the names
of Orion’s stars
any more than I know the name
of the soccer mom
in a Sedan in front of me

who carefully checked in her rearview mirror
to ensure that her Maybelline
cloaked the bruise
that her husband
gave her last night.

Nor do I know the names
of the lenders,


the menders,




or my city’s street vendors




who once gave me




an extra sweet and a wink




for my bike ride home.

I cannot grasp
the vastness of the universe
any more than I can grasp
the ubiquity of


suffering,


laughter,


love,
or passion.

Others have walked this sand
before me:

gazed at these very stars —
and though I feel as they felt:


insignificant and infinite –

I do not know their names.