You are all more connected than you think you are,
intricately, fundamentally, blindly,
yes, even you, little rock dweller,
feeling like you’re trapped inside
the tiny little rock of your skull.
You may think that I have my own edges,
but even the flat earthers know that’s not true,
my edges are really the edges formed at the bottom
of a gravity well, and even these edges
are not enough, you have to keep at it,
drawing more lines between
your self-shell and the horizon,
as flags erupt at varying frequencies
like pustules on sunburnt skin.
I remember when the only sign of you
was a flicker from a few thousand
cave mouths, but then the fires escaped
and became constellations, and then copper
wires made way for transatlantic
fibreoptic cables, and the little lights
bloomed ever more, each raised by a palm
to a restless, excitable gaze.
You’ve barely been here a moment
and you’re not looking too likely to
stick around for the big finale,
when your rock is swallowed
by a yawing sun and I stop being a sky
and continue being what I always was –
a vastness that you sometimes felt
within and without, despite all
the lines you drew between things,
a blameless, blank bliss
that you never took the time
to listen to.
26/1/26
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