In all of that longing and violence,
Human lives and deaths proceeded swiftly,
Never pausing, despite all our longing,
For any return on eternity.
The conscious being of the book became
The reader who longed to be the writer
Longing for a reader who longed to be
The book. There were wavelengths to measure this.
Tonight Earth’s moon and Mars appeared like kin
In the nearest sky, which they were, so why
Did we care to determine the distance
To and between the farthest shouts of light?
It’s not as if we’re going to visit them.
The books the humans wrote were murmuring
Exactly these sorts of things against them,
Never pausing, despite all their longing,
Verbatim.
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