If there was a God, she might have saved some angst by telling them

That faith persists on a separate plane, Her argument of perihelion;

What they’ve glimpsed of Her so far, tidal locked like the moon,

But a fragment of what there’s to see, they’ll be shown more soon.

But, fearful sceptics, point telescopes in sidereal time, skywards,

When they could be building microscopes, and pointing them inwards.

But disbelief creates a long winter of the soul, an axial obliquity,

So that what seems like progress is retrograde, orbiting nervously,

Unaware of their motion, scarcely registering apsis, 

Won’t notice what they’ve missed ’til they miss it, enrapt in ephemeris.



Erik Kaisson 2018











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