D. B. DEVILLIERS

across breadth and depth beyond reckoning
its trajectory these billion years plotted

little worlds trail tethered stars equally
predestined pedestrian slotted

in mindless gyration, horribly lumbering
mocking mimicry up and down

to the preterite chiral makeup
of small life likewise bound—

trepidatious feverdreamt tiptoeing toward
mock cosmic illusory godhood.

the player, selling the show, does believe
for a moment he’s henry v

who might have really believed for a moment
he might have been some kind of king.

the planets chock back from imagination
into stoneset timeworn slots

the player when the lamps shut quits stage
to lie in drink, sometimes love, and in rot

and of the king
the king…