We come, then go.
We gawk, we stare,
absorb it though
there’s nothing there.
No damage left.
It’s clean and spare.
When a planet shifts
we want to see.
We come, we lift
our cameras high.
We strike a pose.
We mourn, we sigh.
We were not here.
We’re glad we weren’t.
We wish our fear
gone with the dirt
and all the ash.
We feel so hurt
that all this passed
but then convert
our awe to cash
and buy a shirt,
a flag, a book.
We dare to flirt
with second looks
and our recall.
We think: we shook,
we cried, that’s all.
The hole is huge.
We did not fall.
Dark Matter 