Gulls crenellate his rooftop,
a feathered battlement to drop their bombs,
and don't realize we wouldn't have religion
if we weren't afraid of the unknown.
Knotted hanks as morning hair,
our seas float out more bloat-walled bodies,
casks of conceit that asked simply to understand.
The answer's sent,
on its way,
halfway home.
Pulsed messages encoded in a comet’s tail
transmit rings of spectral shift--
saw one myself, just last night.
The answer sent
on its way,
halfway home,
soon to burst the 5th magnitude
and speak to us,
speaking so that we hear.
Attentions of course, elsewhere
at the crucial moment,
our balance lost studying cellular notes
by our own light, keeping our own company
to ward off small fears,
with a yell,
with a hullabaloo.
But the answer's been sent
on its way,
halfway home--look
at god's old tongue
sparking in the sky.
It’s seven billion light years on its way,
while gulls still crack jokes like the first sound.
On its way.
But only halfway home.
