Some things, they say--
--many things, you think--
--most things, we know--
--all things, perhaps?--
Are not made to be smooth, blank, without flaw or feature,
Empty.
For the universe's glory is in its globs,
Its clumps of infinitesimal stray primordial imperfection
That snowballed into worlds upon worlds.
For each of these worlds is secretly a hundred thousand billions and billions
Of crags and crevices and craters and creations,
Infinity in the grain of sand with the holy name of everything written on it infinite times over.
For what are we, if not crevices, if not globs,
If not worlds, if not universes,
If not cosmic fractal realms unto ourselves?
We cannot--must not--will not deny ourselves our stars.