So many miles of earth and rock
and we linger here on the surface,
living on the crust, and dying just beneath.
Why does nature not optimize?
Why are there stretches of nothingness
between the planets, separating the stars?
Merely elbow room?
As an artist does,
can we make negative space
beautiful? Meaningful?
Can we embrace the economy
of emptiness? Voids violate
our sense of purpose.
We look up and see black space,
and can only assume that beyond that lies
black space,
sprinkled with spinning spheres
and spiraling wonders.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem