An Empirical Constraint?
Lying face up in a recently plowed dead furrow,
The sky looks infinitely deep and perfectly blue.
Both are illusion created by distant molecular mirrors
Or so it appears
from one point of view.
The context had seemed so correct
To ensure bursting the bubble, despite the cost:
At the border between man's ordered cultivation
And nature's apparently rampant chaos,
A spot not part of either, touching both.
Sunset had seemed an auspicious beginning
with the climax perhaps at sunrise,
Giving myself up to the darkness
To be reborn or annihilated by morning's light.
My clothes were neatly piled
By a tree at the edge of the field.
The ground felt only pleasantly cool
As I snuggled into the somewhat cramped fit
Of my chosen womb or possible grave.
Those who make such predictions
Foretold an unseasonable storm,
At least two feet of snow
And subzero degrees.
Exposure had seemed an appropriate means,
With shock providing the necessary detachment
To be part of another reality
Where life and death
Are merely the convenient constructs they are.
The night began with nothing more than a slight chill
And a clear sky where full moon had given up the stage
To the stellar players in the galactic drama
That you and I wrote and I want to burn.