Poem from Dark Matter

First light through the limbs of the trees. And then
the trees. Each morning the hum of traffic
through the freeway wall. And then the traffic

we’re bottled in. Each thing first betrayed
by the shapes around it. As if shadows held
all our weight. Like the empty space that props

each fiery nest of stars, the smooth circumference
of every heavenly body toward which astronomers
might dream. I’m at the kitchen window, early light.

Reading science for tea leaves. Pluto, it seems,
is far colder than we thought. Even the constant
speed of light is decaying. And look where thoughts

can lead: Somewhere in a lonely future, a man
hears his heart stop beating long before the world
goes black. So slow the rate at which nothing

approaches. Or maybe like an ostrich we’ll outrun
our past. And then our present. And this, my gift
to you, whatever you’ll make of it: The soul, a ship

in a bottle lost at sea. Drops its anchor anyway.

—from American Fractal