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It is said that starfish lost their brains
on the moon back in the singularity’s heyday,
an apocryphal tale, time being unknown as the sky
from the sea, all existence crammed
in a can of pea soup,
floating.

And still the starfish float,
husk begetting husk, mindless suckers
prying open clam shells for food, swept away
by currents to the hungry manta ray.
And still the moon, the astronauts,
space junk float in that boring abyss winking

mockery at the dark ocean.
And still we–less buoyant, bound by gravity–
float away from memory
to a blinding, deafening, spiraling galaxy,
whirlpool
of dead stars.