Every last atom I hold out in my hand, and those that spill from it, are populated by their own galaxies and solar systems, booming and expanding—universes unto themselves, where on each of their temperate worlds swarm billions of sentient beings, pondering in vain their own station.
And does any one of them know that this universe I call my own—
is but an atom of an ever vaster one?
I clench my fist, crushing and crumbling the worlds it held—arresting a comet in its orbits, the sleek knife of the butcher at the throat of a lamb, thrashing lovers about to come, a baby's head emerging into the light between its mother's thighs—
and cast the remains into the road, wondering—whose hand it is that holds my world?