I followed the recipe exactly:
about 10 pounds of matter in a small space and gravity.
The big bang was not as climatic as the books tell us.
You cannot sense my universe.
See it. Hear it. Even feel it brushing your skin.
You can measure its ever expanding creation
with highly sensitive instruments.
Tools that study stars.
After your hands clap,
or watching all the leaves fall from the bristlecone tree,
my waves merge with your waves
Ones being one being one being one.
I planned to write a poem about Carl Sandburg, Jesse Helms,
They may have made a National Park from a socialist’s home,
and I imagine myself walking amongst the goat herd of Connemara,
not drinking a drop of milk.