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DARK MATTER

The living looking for eternity

don’t know eternity is brief.

A favorite thing about being alive

or other questions no one asks me,

and it would be knowing people.

Knowledge through time.

What’s the name of that hour in the day

where no matter our planned futures

everything is full of nothing

as the world is full of people

without reason other than small chance.

You are tired and most singular

in the middle of the afternoon

when seeing you on the street

(and not in a bedroom) reminds me you’re real,

allowing me to begin the rest of this poem.

Because life isn’t enough

which is unbelievable to the fog, sea,

or anything lucky to be

without our incurable consciousness.

Vanishing. A once-orange leaf that’s been

left in a book. The silver handles

of the casket as it’s lowered into the earth.

People’s mistakes. Dark matter.

The sky just before evening.

One boat in the Atlantic.

A handful of balloons going all the way up.

The few places in the world where it’s raining

as you read this. As I write this.

As I read this out loud and somewhere

what is expected does not return.

The last lamp in an old house.

How I’m not sure if I’d like to end on an image

of someone turning it on, turning it off.

Silences. Between the waves and beneath them.

People’s mistakes. People’s mistakes.