“There are dead stars that still shine because their light is trapped in time.
Where do I stand in this light, which does not strictly exist?”
— Don Delillo, Cosmopolis

The light, not yet warm, opens our days.
We commit to memory that hope is best performed as a cognitive process
and remember: stars align themselves through proximity and gravitational pull.

Collapsing distance to violent midwinter visions
questions seep: how did I not know I was in danger?
Violations stacked delicate  //  soft brushes with unwanted space.

This tail of the past curls comfortably around itself.
Scared animals return home, even if home is unsafe.
Time sinks into litanies simple as joy is serious.

This narrative clearly has a beginning, middle, and no end
because our holy bodies are sites of quantum consciousness.
We swagger in possibility and pull intuitive threads to unravel.