kadosh kadosh kadosh
(bounce bounce bounce)
I told you when I met you
I was crazy
Court and Spark circling at 33 1/3 over cups of coffee, time in little bottles. On the counter gleams Della's sum for gasoline: one dollar and eighty-seven cents, and the next day would be Christmas. Or Partly Cloudy, lows in the twenties. Weather, I hear you.
Forty-seven.
White Dwarf
One day when our sun runs out of fuel and collapses inward under its own weight, then picks up enough mass from its neighbor to explode outward, the blown debris approaching a good fraction of the speed of light, then, then you'll be sorry. Oh, relax: we have five billion years, give or take a few million, to prepare. Meanwhile we go on believing the universe has our best interests at heart. The dock down at Groton Long Point throws a lovely wood skeleton fifty yards out into the Sound. There we rest, after a bike ride, and the winds rise by our witness and the waves build, and the paper-white sails and hulls of pleasure boats cut scimitars into the bay. We sit close-pressed and watch without speaking, wanting to live here, in this model galaxy of islands and peninsulas and rock borders where earth, water and air meet in the small fires of our blood. Oh, why not. We watch a long time. I whisper to you. It is the middle of the day but your hair has that scrubbed protein smell once locked in the center of a star. Why not here? This is what I whisper. Even as we speak, close galaxies are speeding away, faster than more distant galaxies, which are also receding. Groton Long Point, Milky Way, heat of your body next to mine: this is where we live, now. Lovely little islands of matter, surrounded by the blank of space. And the dark taking over more real estate even as we speak. Encroaching zero of the infinite, white dwarf, my breath on your neck: even as we speak.
-- Jeffrey Skinner
(bounce bounce bounce)
I told you when I met you
I was crazy
Court and Spark circling at 33 1/3 over cups of coffee, time in little bottles. On the counter gleams Della's sum for gasoline: one dollar and eighty-seven cents, and the next day would be Christmas. Or Partly Cloudy, lows in the twenties. Weather, I hear you.
Forty-seven.
White Dwarf
One day when our sun runs out of fuel and collapses inward under its own weight, then picks up enough mass from its neighbor to explode outward, the blown debris approaching a good fraction of the speed of light, then, then you'll be sorry. Oh, relax: we have five billion years, give or take a few million, to prepare. Meanwhile we go on believing the universe has our best interests at heart. The dock down at Groton Long Point throws a lovely wood skeleton fifty yards out into the Sound. There we rest, after a bike ride, and the winds rise by our witness and the waves build, and the paper-white sails and hulls of pleasure boats cut scimitars into the bay. We sit close-pressed and watch without speaking, wanting to live here, in this model galaxy of islands and peninsulas and rock borders where earth, water and air meet in the small fires of our blood. Oh, why not. We watch a long time. I whisper to you. It is the middle of the day but your hair has that scrubbed protein smell once locked in the center of a star. Why not here? This is what I whisper. Even as we speak, close galaxies are speeding away, faster than more distant galaxies, which are also receding. Groton Long Point, Milky Way, heat of your body next to mine: this is where we live, now. Lovely little islands of matter, surrounded by the blank of space. And the dark taking over more real estate even as we speak. Encroaching zero of the infinite, white dwarf, my breath on your neck: even as we speak.
-- Jeffrey Skinner
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