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Because it goes on, over and over, you can never say
you’re halfway there. Six thousand, seven hundred years
then swinging back to the cold. Then once more
toward the brilliance of solar flames. The last time
you came by, earth was a dark planet at night, but what
an unmannerly mob the monkeys have turned out to be
with brains given to the immediate. And already
you’ve left behind flares, faerie fires, green oak masks.
What god would you worship when so little of your attention
is focused on an interior life? Perhaps existence is
an elaborate dance, the sound of radiation bouncing
between galaxies. The infinite cat’s cradle of buzzing lines
might not be as random as they seem—and space
is not as glamorous as it appears from a distance.
You suspect consciousness is over-rated. If only
you could be sure that your glittering is not just someone
else’s light reflecting from your outer shell. Even with
its diminishments, you live for those few moments of fire.