Hymn Fourteen (Unsung)

“A Drop in the Bucket, Kicked”

So much space junk and cosmic rock burn and drop
from distant heaven each day—some fifty, experts say.
Whether down in the barren sea
or a vacant stretch of fruitless plain or through a crowded shop,
even a suburban roof, these smooth or jagged objects may
simply add to life’s debris

or end the mass of happy days. So too the random end
when the brain fever boils undammed in surging swells.
All of a good woman sudden falls.
Two tots, now without a mother, cry, left to fend
with a zombie father the barrage of hell’s
brimstone darts and fire balls.

What clues lie layered in primordial star dust
may be staggering. Those answers will surely stun.
Like Job, I ask why,
discontent with pottery scratch and garbage ash. You must
know our thirst for answers. Offer some—
a less random, a less antagonistic sky.