The universe’s ignorance of me is privacy.
I know the endangered meadow in a way
it will never know itself.

Must be the cosmos wanted something
to hear the splendornote
and find the fossil data,

to take an interest
in extinction events and ask
what pulsation is this

exserted from, what What.
I don’t know about purpose,
the why of why

we’re here, but we seem to witness
with a difference.
To think is to exercise

godheat. Haven’t I been given
everything, my life?
I might as well revise

the opening to read
the universe adores me.
It leans. It likes. It feels

no one could fail in quite
the same way as I’ve.
It gives burnish

when what is worthy of it.
The cosmos must have wanted something
to provide ovation

and disdain and inquire
under whose auspices
comes applause and hiss

and ask whose modulations unscroll
in flowers so immoderate that many
fewer would be none the less

a form of excess.

"Sequel" is from Alice Fulton's latest book, Felt (W.W. Norton, 2001) and is reproduced by permission of the author and the publisher. Copyright © 2001 by Alice Fulton. All Rights Reserved.