“If you wish
to make an apple pie
from scratch, you must first
invent the universe.”
– Carl Sagan.
from scratch, scratching, here his little scar and the constellations above.
the softness of her kiss and the volcanoes on Jupiter.
the tenor of my daughter’s laughter and the principle of gravity.
here and above, below and some-when-else.
an elegance that shatters me, brings me to tears.

to go on. into some vast darkness, vast obliteration. have you been obliterated? nonsense. post traumatic babble. no war time. only peace time. down time. dead time. long dead, you died a long time ago. was it in the hospital with the sweat of his brow or when you betrayed them all? when you walked away from the boy’s death or when you allowed hers?
or when you stopped dreaming? or when they laughed at you and your clothes? when she told you you smelled like a pool or when chose to no longer speak to you? how did it all happen? the wonderment. you, astonished that you are not alone. without punishment. without grief. without respite. to combat the vastness of it, the sense of hopelessness and judgment. to be cast out when so clearly in the bosom of all that loves you.

the fucking luck of it. run out. sparse and empty. you’ve ruined it. nothing else but this. no grandeur for you, no promise of more for them. wretched as you are. piecemeal. all that you are, just barely enough for them to survive on.