Embalmed in textured navy fabric space,
we float in vacuum silence, orbiting like stars.

With outstretched finger solar flares, we bridge
the space between us, puzzle over charts
and physics, piece together what we are–

in blazing convex eyes like mirrored spheres,
reflections question why they'd been afraid …

We curled up in our function’s minima,
derived the strongest force we'd ever seen
before. We hadn't considered, I'll admit,

because it seemed just so farfetched– absurd–
a conscious variable, god, or of the sort,

by whom our stellar glory was produced,
allowed, controlled. Because what universe–
inanimate and gloomy hunk of void–

destroys with prejudice, unless it minds
whose theories rest on hope and lovely lies?