The night is tired. You don’t know this, but
The night is always, has always been tired.
The stars are weary. The galaxies nod their spiral
Heavy heads, sleepy as poppies, black-eyed.
That’s exhaustion that goes by the moniker
Dark matter, and those are the stirring of many,
Many shadowy limbs restless for rest that go
By the ironic label dark energy. The whole
Mess is so worn out with its own messiness,
Longing for an all-too distant end to endlessness
That it can’t be bothered. That’s why we get
No answers when we query it, when we scan
Its scattered turbulence for anything as young
And eager to communicate as us. It’s not
That there’s nothing out there, or it’s not
Only that there’s no one. The night is tired.
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