Lizzy Burnam 🐞

You are human only 
in the spaces 
between what is non-human: 
the clump of wet soil, 
the cluster of long-dead stars, 
the snow, unhurried. 

A storm, then, is not erasure
but enveloping. 

You stand by the window 
to watch the world drift 
into a white sleep
and time rages on like a train. 

Human, only—a servant 
of the universe. 
You carry a small blue grenade
in your palm.