Mostly, we are still just
in shock—
after all this time
how few
have disappeared, turned
thermal-nuclear
gone molten,
become stones.
Alone, and increasingly
more than alone,
but measuring the increase
more and more accurately,
still in shock
at the prospect
of becoming newly shocked,
still hearing in the echo
of the same strings
of numbers repeating
the deepness of externalities,
the richness of
our tilted simplicity,
still respecting
for bygone reasons
the old grandaddy feebleness
of what was long ago so
grandly termed
gravity—each body's
invisible faraway breathing
learning like some miniature
shoulder-blade demon
on the heavenly trajectory
of every makeshift, every
would-be Jesus.
