(Previously titled "There's More to Black Holes Than Gravity, from the collection of Physics poetry: Could There Be A Big-Bang If No One Was There To Hear It?")
On guileless, toddler knees I crawl
toward the moist, elemental region,
in the star nursery where her legs collide;
knowing I will measure gravity,
check voice messages and reconcile
my bank statement later this afternoon.
For, it’s my job to estimate eternity.
I’m paid a salary to calculate infinity.
I tell visitors I love to climb mountains,
love the thin difficult air,
the unrelenting vistas
that curve past understanding.…
My unofficial title could be “Galaxy Counter”.
But I like to think of myself
as an explainer of things.
And, this I have found:
The universe is void and without form
before the damp, pink singularity
at the shadowy fork of her limbs,
where time is born.
