Then weeding through birthroot in the neighbor’s
flower patch. Again, pole-dancing
at the Pink Pussycat. Once in Prague at a distance
one fall, cramming yourself and
child onto the number six tram
and I thought to call out
or recant, somehow, our widening elliptical
paths, but it was never
you to begin with. A trick of light sent back
over so many miles
they might as well be the very years themselves
which separate. Distance
is a tragedy of vision: the bus
pulls out of the depot; droning
planes knife through time zones, flash their polished
glint over shining seas.
I have measured the redshift at dawn, felt
the anisotropy of
touch and touch withdrawn long before
reading today’s news:
Hubble Telescope Provides Final Clue.
relative intensities of supernova
light, confirm space
bubbles with a dark energy, a mutual repulsion
among heavenly bodies
gravity should contradict. So the gloom
between star, planet, moon—
autumns and elections, rush hours and therapy sessions—
expands. There will be no
stasis here, no holding-pattern,
but a further, farther reach.
One other time at a farmer’s market near
ten o’clock on a Sunday morning, presiding over
mounds of brown-tasseled corn.
“Negative Gravity” appeared in Rhumb Lines (Sutton Hoo Press, 2002).