Ill portent
notwithstanding
There is a
tension in the air
An evening
hush that draws
The eye to
the east, a fist’s
Distance
from Arcturuus,
Out of
focus, yet visible to the naked eyes’
Unconscious
attention, no more
Than some
unknown function of the
Brain lays
out the night sky
The same as
you see it.
An object is
easier to describe
Than a
subject’s word or action
Is not as
predictable as a comet’s path
Through a
weightless space we can’t
Explore
being old, perhaps
Like
fossils, preserved
Cosmic dust
and ice particles
Captured in
an orbit and spun
Faster
around the sun
Than around
its outer arc
Where ice
does not vaporize
From heat
and the earth
Appears as
remote as a gas giant
Seen near
the moon,
Brighter
than more distant
Suns that we
call stars
And I posit
my theory of their
Planetary
systems, laid out by
An ancient
function of the brain,
Is different
from your imagined universe,
And we laugh
because here
There are no
objects
To exert
their will upon us
Because what
is unknown changes
From you to
me, and perhaps
The universe
is not as old as
We thought,
nor we.
© cmheuer,
2013
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