Paradox - Michael Soltero

it’s better to make lists,
you told me, citing those old poems
about the end of numbers,
the beginning of time, the tall oaks-
white bearded and drunk,
gazing at the stars.

i pointed out
the troublesome hum of machinery
which haunts all houses
(previously we had only heard
the mad howling of ink on paper
and the wind outside growling)

you said it’s the furnace’s fire
dying out, it’s the moon screaming,
it’s us trying to fit in
while belonging nowhere,
never meant to be.

i stopped you with a question mark,
eyes wide.
what about the sound of blade on skin?
time is a joke,
god hates the sun
and nothing is ever lost.