Home >> Volume 1, Issue 02

Deep Field

William Mickelberry

a reaction to the Hubble photograph
of the farthest visible galaxies

It is not the distant glitter
of a city far off
across a dark bay,
a city where,
if only you could
stand the brine
in the nostrils, the bone chill
of the waves
for just long enough,
you could arrive
among the lights of lives,
warm and indoors and sleepy,
each room in its own untouchable past.

It is not the unfocused spangle
of her eyes,
nor the frozen splinters
of the glass
she smashed on the
black polished marble.
Nor is it wonder
in the brain
or a child’s spinning toys.
It is not even time
as they say it is,
although everything is time.

It is simply
a sheet of paper,
glossy with chemicals,
sliding easily under
your fingers,
all you will ever touch
of zero.
It is where
you will never go.
Nor should you
since it is
beyond evil and
whatever is beyond that.