What are these things I stare at in the store?
They’re not legs or asses.
They’re moments of nothingness
that turn into frozen eternities
where the only cognizant thought I have
is how much I love you.
Then I see again
with fluorescence around me.
I have bones that hold me up to go forward
and the sadness of a world at war
begins to live again
for the followers of symbols and power.
Not the philosophers of moments.
The moments are empty here,
ungathered by mortals and products.
It’s what the aliens were calling knowledge
one thousand three hundred and sixty-four
light years away in their past.