There was a time when we were thrilled
to not know whether the universe would
collapse or go on forever. The uncertainty
was exquisite, with notes of amber, sage,
sweetgrass, early summer honeysuckle nectar,
tangerine, smoke, and pine needles dripping
rain from who knows what ocean. And so on.
And then we lost ourselves in cognitive dissonance.
In carbon dating and the ten-year plan. It takes
spectacular death to take one back to the realm of
unknown asteroids and the other side of the black
hole you wish to name after all your grandchildren's
grandchildren and their children. A blacked-out sky
and a neighborhood blackout to finally hear the
movement of these particles of air you swore you
could see secretly singing when you were small.
It's almost unbearable, this rush of quiet that besieges
your slight body as you first break through the skin of
space, and then the loudest sound coming out from
your heart, that roar that surrounded you in the galaxy
inside your mother. And here is where you go mad
with love for the infinite dark, where you finally
want to live on and on, never knowing everything,
because time is no longer your country, and you're
no longer a stranger in this everlasting house.