How is it that we are arranged
like a demon made of
stars?
All the spokes of all our
wagon wheels
turning in on themselves;
these are
haphazard arrangements
by which were are made.
It’s a wonder that any of us
is human, or alive
for more than a week,
or able to say much
for ourselves
that has never been heard
before.

Prompt: Poetic Asides (haphazard).