Twig

It’s a grim thought to twig to—life
Might not come out of a world but

In more or less the way we know,
That the sieve gave birth to us

Gives birth to such lives on all worlds,
That the bugs from deep space will look

A bit like our bugs, bit like us,
Bite like us, bit like us by life.

Out here on one long arm of dust,
One of the bright swirls in the dark,

There was some hope that we would be
Fruits of a weird, bent twig, our wants

And rot and seeds our own, just ours,
No life else, or none with this twist.

But if the whole night shares the same
Lust for life, need of life to eat

Its forms that kill its forms to eat
Forms that fall and split, it’s all sin.