The Beatitude of No One

We start to suspect we are
Being written for no one,

Not for the embodied beast,
Even, who composes us.

Of course no one’s reading us,
Other than the beast and friends,

But we’re also not written
At any sort of target,

Unless that audience is
Just us and phrases like us.

Nothing in our lines believes
In human necessity,

In necessary humans.
So who, then? The grass? The trees?

The clear sky before first light
This morning, the galaxy

In parallel stripes of light
Embracing its central dark?

Nothing these words care about
Could care what words are saying.