Because I read about space junk and glimpsed that image
of a Tesla, mannequin at the wheel as it shot past Mars,
today I see my nephew floating in the ocean. He travels
as molecules among glittering galaxies of fish,
but I see him back inside his skull, mutely mouthing
underwater. His small plane plunged to the Pacific
years ago, linking what’s above with what’s below.
Currents spun him round for days. Food for fish.
Matter swallowed by black holes.
He still drifts between the worlds for me, eternal
as a plastic man and occupied with nothing.
It’s the ocean that stays busy. I forgive the ocean.
I love to stare at how stubbornly it moves.
Except he keeps washing up against me, stuck
between forever and never again, bright clutter
the universe refuses to erase and no one can retrieve.