In the silence, a
voice – the unheard sound
a ship’s rockets
create as they cry out
against the void. In
the vacuum, a wind… fingers
trailing down the
cosmic spine, drifts
from star to star, brushes
across the point
where dreams become
and thoughts,
minute eddies of time, flow back and forth, pool
in the emptiness of
comparisons – really
is any star better
than the previous, greater
than the nova, less
than the yellow sun’s
emergent experience of
the uncompromising night?
And in this darkness consciousness
travels through,
a line without
intention voyaging to places so distant
by the time they are
arrived at the reasons
no longer matter… like
how a starman
can hold a child, a
daughter, say, her tiny legs
kicking, and, with all
the promises whispered
into the powerful scent
of that newborn crown,
still be shocked when
she leaves home…
as if the years were
but short breaths
between the joys and
errors of life, and the starman
finds himself in the
spaceship, his face pressed
against the small
porthole, watches
as his daughter, like
a bright blue planet, fades
into the diminishing
distance of existence.
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