It's no wonder he spends
so much time alone, his one
good eye at arm's length,
aimed at no one.
He's studied relativity.
Knows the absurdity
of companionship along
the cosmic timeline,
the largest of cities
dwarfed by a dwarf star.
From the moon, he says,
the Middle East is as
serene as the Antarctic.
There is no pollution.
To shout across space
is to hear nothing, not even
yourself.
In my apartment
I leave the television on
at all times. I can't sleep
unless someone is talking,
unless all the quiet shadows
dance. The amateur
astronomer tells me that
the first radio waves
are seventy light-years away
by now, and have barely
reached the nearest stars.
That a billion miles from here
Cassini is studying the rings
of Saturn, squeezing secrets
from shards of ice. But what
are secrets? I say to him.
There's nothing new up there.
All things take up space
but words. Even mystery
is something invented
not too long ago.