After the Storm

We talked of the usual things, small things, what we would do

with our lives, how we would spend

our summer vacation. An empty road,

January night. Snow pinching

under our boots. Clear.

We talked of warm places,

pointed out constellations

(Orion, Cassiopeia), wondered

how people ever saw outlines

of people up there. Or

imagined music in the blackblue

nothingness. Somewhere out west,

you said. A camping trip somewhere

out west. We reached the end

of the lane and turned back, sky

cluttered by branches, moon

a bright leaf. The astronomers

say the edge of the universe

is expanding but

may one day reach an ultimate

limit. Is it possible? Can

the mind understand what the heart

cannot bear? We need to feel

the open space again, you said,

to me, to the moon, to the gray

sagging trees. Just voices

keeping company in one corner

of the Milky Way, reminding

each other of the somethingness

that has no edge.

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