It is because
the wind had nothing to say
and the spaces between the words were quiet
for too long
and he wondered if an old man
could have anything to say
that the world wasn’t dew on roses
that life isn’t the edge of the razor
or the razor itself
that the universe could never be empty
so it blew itself up
trying
and the leaves fell off the trees
and the babies all cried
and the snow stopped
and was quiet
and the words flowed again without
finding themselves
or meaning much
but they tried anyway and
threw themselves onto the page
and said
“We’ll be futile scribbles in a meaningless world in a tiny infinite universe.”