Inside the weight
that bears the ocean,
the hard surface of a diamond
in a star,
the draped windows of
a black hole’s pavilion,
or the particle of the first colossal explosion,
or the instant moment of forever,
lie these questions.
What creatures made from nothing can
drape their nothingness with faces,
hear their thoughts
made of silence, spoken,
and grasp each other
with arms made of little more
than perfect vacuum, then
turn into the lightness of a dream
called love?
Or pose, without a stupid answer,
how many tons does the rainbow weigh?
Who lives inside a mirror?
When earth falls
does it weigh a feather?
Can you wrinkle space
like you wrinkle paper?
And what is the atom
we call life,
except the belief we call nothingness
has within itself a something,
which, when all the stars dissolve
will be the remainder
no equation can carry over
to balance the question
of its question.