Coming this far, we are
the heavy craft, bound to describe
the half-life of black holes.

We think: it must be
a fabulous room, large enough for
the portraits of harbored silence.

Our eyes at night, even closed,
see the world upside-down,
see the long, long shadows of day.

Now, when the footprints
on this shore are ours,
it is time to spell our names again.

Overhead, overhead, all
the stars have fallen in our pockets
before we’re home.

And on the way there
we’ll share a story,
the only one that’s ever told.

It begins: Someone dreams.
While dust settles in the sky
we’ll hold the darkness in our sleeves.