




OLBERS' PARADOX
instead of the moth-nibbled tarp that flaps
soundly now above us, instead of all this faint
topography and solar grit, the astronomers
are saying the sky should bare a superdense
sheet of stars, to hell with constellations,
the night minded only by one devastatingly
bright eye. it sounds right: do we not endeavor
to hold one another, even in this endless
space? let it be known I’m glad it’s not true.
this fact would be too much and too
beautiful. nothing would get done. we
would overextend our necks and spend
all the dark hours weeping. it would be like
a mass synchronous cellular orgasm
or a mid-autumn so golden it entered
the blood or a day where nobody died
or those mornings when I wake up
before you to the static of early rain
and your face is so wantless and still
and mine and you’re not even being
a person and you’re perfect still perfect
and I have to turn away because I can’t
bear to look because there’s something
there writhing in you that if considered
for more than a pulse would open me up
it would open me up then undo me