like a nothing
made of the something
which is world
a dance just for one
became the morse of rhythm
in another one’s lines of drawing
that shielded the third
in the turmoiled movement
in sleep and made
the dew on the flowers and leaves
in a blessed family’s garden
seem like tears
evaporating from the earth’s core
and one man with all the duties
of the universe bow the arrow of time
up his shoulder in habit like it was nothing