In a universe so tightly woven that not even deepest space was truly
Empty, a fly-strewn diner on a sweltering afternoon in a provincial town
Could serve as well as any juncture for an illustration of our irrational
Urge for purpose. But why bother again with describing all that, the milling
Pedestrian sidewalk specifics? Why not just admit that a conviction
One saw something worth saying, worth saving among the dusty atoms
And their endlessly elaborating coincidences, the world going about
Its daily business of coming apart at the seams, something worthy just
Because impossible to save, amounted to the most exquisite torture of all?
At one table in the back, someone muttered something about Voyagers
Still sending signals back from outside the heliosphere after now forty years.
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