The Thirteenth Line

It's marvelous the way it takes shape,
the glorious structure of all we believe we believe.

Us, scribbling our merry way along,
pen to paper, tongue to teeth, heart to the empty sky.

We poke around for a foothold,
for a place to start, and then we're off:

one uttered dream strung to another,
thin-scripted threads of new reality stretching out.

And at the end of it all is the simplest of marks.
A period. A dot. A small stab at the distant dark.

A little sphere spinning like the last planet
at the edge of a vast nothingness,

beyond which we are ready to go.