Space is emergent and not fundamental,
An outfit the cosmos created as it changed,
A garment illustrating and illustrated by time.
The body that stays up late endures this,
These illustrations as they grow wearisome,
The formal robes of a sorcerer being sewn
Directly onto his frame as he yawns and longs
For sleep. Thousands of ongoing cycles
Without a break between any of them weave
The dizzying patterns he grasps as memory,
As past. Everywhere he sees apparent gaps
And nonconformities that, closely observed,
All also appear to be patched. He sways
In the drift of his own cumulative exhaustion.
The concept of bearing witness is human,
One of our myriad social stratagems, not
An aspect of the interrelationships of any
Of the other known beasts of the cosmos
We’ve yet witnessed. Our ancestors thrived
By keeping wary eyes on each other,
By reporting the gossip. The sorcerer knows
He’s thus only a byproduct of a peculiar type
Of bestial success, one watcher of the other,
Of the rest of the changing universe that shifts
Without regard to witnesses, that could not
Possibly care less. These robes hang like lead,
But he sees they are beautiful in every thread.
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