We forget this immensity, it will still be ours, for we wrote
such mysteries down: we did the thing others dared not.
We collected all the dazzling & dangerous & dreamed
aches, scrapped them, though we did not yet have words by
which to map them.

Someone will remember us, this, even if in another time,
even if by any other name.

We wrap our arms around ourselves, as if we can possibly
hold the whole of who we are within us—everything that
makes us this unearthly speck we are. perhaps tomorrow
cannot wait to be today.

In this one life, we. like our joy, are fleeting but certain,
abstract & absolute, ghosts who glow & glow.