(Wherever I go, I find meanings,
just like wherever Poirot goes, murders take place.)
Contact with reality
produces a lot of movement.
Or, as one of my friends puts it:
they hit one another
because they like touching each other.
The sky—as Kepler discovered—
is not a dome; it’s a siege.
His noetic onion
of perfect Platonic solids
collapsed.
It came to be mathematically proven
that every orbit possesses two centers,
and one of them is emptiness.
(Kepler displayed amazing sangfroid for someone
whose mother was almost burned at the stake as a witch.)
Only much, much later, there appeared
the science of economics, according to which
the unlimited reproduction of archetypes
leads to their inevitable devaluation.
Hence terms emerge such as
“light pollution.”
(And each time it’s in a new way inauspicious
when people suddenly stop what they’re doing
and look up at the sky.)