By | 1 February 2014

The din of leaf blowers recalls the promise of jetpacks
and the wide-eyed at space launches.
Progress has boosted the noise level so high
I can’t hear myself think. I can feel my brain sliding
from the impenetrability of man-made clamor.
Our minds have become echo chambers of man’s refusal
to stay put. Scientists are making noises about Mars.
They have sent back space art to amplify
the thrumming of expectation that lies dormant
until we are shown something at a distance.
Here comes the thunder. Run run run. One-thousand-one,
one-thousand-two, one-thousand-three, turn to see
the lightning. We sketch the stars. The quietude
of distant conflagrations in dark matter
amplifies the intrigue of light rays from before time
buzzing our rooftops. What is hope?
It’s a backfiring existence as we brake downhill.

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