Job talks with his friends.
Would they ask me to join them?
I stand silent as a wind turbine on the high plains.
Where are my words that lift the flat sheet of the world
to address the suffering and dilemmas?
They leave me out.
To be without words!
The stubbles hurt my feet.
The Universe ate our first children. ¹
We all are expendable.
This Mystery. This Unanswerable.
This Old One up there who spoke the world into being.
But I remain silent?
What skies are these? To whom do they belong?
Tell me where you are. What you see.
What God is there with Satan rolling around his throne saying, give
me Job for a moment?²
Are there other worlds? Isn’t this one enough?
All those buzzing of comments and falling stars in the observatory in Uz.
Those astro-heads. Those Job’s friends.
I would join the argument if I had their bag of words.

¹ JOB 1:18-19
² JOB 1:11, 2:3-4