Numbers are finite. Even
in the theory of
an infinite universe,
particle rearrangement
can only go so
many ways. There’s a version
where we’re still living it all
out, I’m sure. I want
to do it again. You bring your
dark eyes. I’ll bring the picnic
quilt & my soft hands
to hold whatever you need
carried. We can reminisce,
& retake the same
overexposed Polaroids
of lens flares & cheeks stained with
each other’s lipstick,
still tucked away in my old
bedroom with the blue walls &
scorch marks. Remember
that new & final spring? We
walked down to the field near your
house—the bluestem, un-
bloomed but budding sunflowers.
Back when we were still inside
our dream. Unbound like
the cosmos. Oblivion
inevitable but just
leeching at corners,
shadows creeping at the edge
of our cosmic horizon.
We kept to sunbeams
baking the earth beneath us,
avoiding the old rain still
collecting, threats of
asphalt cracks building with time.
A constellation of bees,
the magnolias pink
with an early bloom in the
empty blue cobalt of that
day. Once, we were small
& expanding—hydrogen,
helium, the rest. This can
