Stranded cosmonaut, dazed survivor, apparatchik

In the space dust, in the incandescence,

and the red rock

of a distant world.

The gods are not here. There’s radio silence. So

We invent anew. Let the mind find

what it would worship. Or a day

without prayers, and push through the heavy air

of that unresponsive freedom.

They won’t answer if you call them. But there’s something in it

Talking, not to ourselves only,

because we are never alone. Our heads are full of voices and

our heads are full of ears.

You can find them, huddled

beseeching,

clamouring

to be born.