from increasingly far
as the explosion
we live in
rides the spine of everything
each night will add
just another
milligram to hell.
As if the ghosts
that swam in these shells
could not possibly find
their way home
without reminding
that matter can neither
be created nor destroyed,
that the gaping
void is no match
for mathematics.
And so, we try to focus
on the faith that our facts
persist without us;
gradually,
we learn not to be
afraid of growing distance—no,
it's the tiniest
change in brightness
that shatters us.
