Scrutinize a world carefully,
Your own or anyone else’s,
You’ll find the gaps no confidence
Can shake, from cosmic background maps
To engraved grains of sands for Blake.
The emptiness is always there,
Although it’s never emptiness.
It’s interest compounding interest
That lurks in each closer focus.
Dickinson’s poems embodied this,
So do honest cosmologists.
The universe is a solid,
Eternal, uneventful lump
Except for gravity’s pinprick
That opens everything’s portal
Into nothing, through which rushes
The whole of all the happening,
The eventfulness, the going,
The glowing offspring of change,
The best, the worst, the nothing much—
Print that on whatever bespoke
Globe you created, creator.
Tuck that in your soul and cloak it.