1

All this occurs on a distant planet –

so distant that things are the same there

as here (the odds are finite).

But by the time we get there,

everything and everyone will

seem weird to us, as we to them.

And if, as seems likely, the trip

is further delayed, we may

seem weird to ourselves, though nothing

we encounter can

surprise us anymore.

But if even more time passes,

and we share

the old age of the universe

(wandering from room to room

with a space heater), when all

the other galaxies are out of sight,

we’ll believe that we imagined them

anyway; that there isn’t,

never was,

a planet.

2

It senses that, if they had their way,

they would capture it, subject it

to tests. So without fleeing,

exactly, it evades them.

They attempt to project

deep harmlessness, goodwill,

and reverence before

its beauty. But it senses

(and they sense it does)

the complexity, fragility,

and history of these postures. It

projects for the sake of argument

an ethics: you wash

to erase your scent,

hunt, mostly fail,

and kill only to eat. It then

examines the conflicted

undertones of their response,

loses interest and, on the point of leaving,

endorses the joy of lapping

water from a stream and going home.

3

“The universe is a thought of God’s,”

writes Schiller. Pleased, he decides

(the candle is guttering) to rest.

His aim – to synthesize

Kant with the truth

of his own generous soul – will call

as loudly at dawn. The Thuringian

summer night is soft. Images

from his military/clerical

early life jostle. In a moment

someone is lecturing.

“There is one question,” the voice says,

“to which God responds immediately

whenever and by whomever it is asked:

‘What are you going to do to me now?’

A moment later, for good or ill,

His reply is clear.” “But that,” Schiller cries,

“is just a God within the mind!”

The voice, unpleasantly: “Whom else

would you expect?” The poet answers feebly,

the dispute forgotten by sunrise.