The existence of a magnetic field
pulls stronger than the field itself
assembled facts like the sweeter fruit
in high branches of ultraviolet glow.
All of that tough climbing is behind us,
only the taste now, chomping the savvy
juice of us into its auroral flesh.
As we feast, all of our needles wag
like tongues. Our bells and whistles toast
the unrelenting forward motion of intelligence,
the vaunted marriage of conjecture and proof.
And, as we celebrate, doesn’t that same proof
work backward from this loud and lathered spot?
Doesn’t it follow the invisible thread
we trail behind us like Uranus
does its corkscrew tail?
Isn’t it even now backtracking our journey,
a tingling fluorescence for every mote of doubt,
a firecracker flash where faith
devours substance?
Radio emissions from solar particles
are trapped in the magentosphere.
Somebody slams like abacus beads
along the tensile strings of a billion hard drives.
Meanwhile, down in the soft drives,
a flicker of light floats into
the telescope tilt of a face —
mine or anyone’s.
