Space Junk

It’s a wire panic, cascading light,
A photon pressure in the world,
Trending through circumferences,
To orbit in the clouds of waste,
We build in space as territories,
Footsteps on the moon as sculpture,
The concept of high planetary art,
Un-moved in evolutionary time,

I’ll make a signature at depth,
To turn this world to my creation,
My claim to these many-zeroed Tonnes,
Of fundamental coalescence,
Valid as any dusty mark from 1969,

I saw it build itself, un-manned,
Un-handled by deity or meaning,
Witnessed or inferred self-creation,
An inevitable consequence of dust,
And gravity with starting numbers,
The elementary question of design,
Who creates posited creators?
Is wasted, a pointless exercise,
In imagining humans centralised,
The peak of intellectual races,

Instead throw sticks and rocks,
And watch them know their paths,
Through those parabolas to impact,
A mineral with mind and heart,
Integrating its own space walk,
On the fly, instantly and exact,
Landing where it knew it would,
From before it left your hand,

It buzzes with small uncertainties,
Interference at lesser scales,
Creates possible absconders,
As the necessary consequence,
Of waves disguised as particles,
Disguised as standing waves,
Not once holding information,
Until glued to screens,
Chloroformed, jarred and pinned,
Beauty made static by experiment.