National Poetry Month: Day 17

After Szymborska

These words
may be too small.

In the helpless expanse
there are
too many stars for our own good.

I can't argue with you.

Perhaps
I'm asking
the wrong question.

My imprecise grammar
follows me home -
barks at the neighbors.

What falls
into my human hands.

What is boundless,
squandered,
ordinary.