Very small our earth, I’m told —
by those who weigh the sky;
Our seven seas but shallow scrapes.
To bathe a ball where angry apes.
Breed gods consigned to die.
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Very young our race, I’m told —
by those who relish age;
Where infants dressed in men’s array.
Spout lines of some unfinished play.
Upon a pinprick stage.

Very foolish we, I’m told —
by those more wise than I;
The reckless need to know God’s face.
Our one, redeeming, savage grace:
This urge to wonder: ‘Why?’