In as much as anything is anything
this is an invisible universe, yet particles
in his fingers swirl within Saturn’s rings,
they fly in the eye of Jupiter and arc
across the Great Galaxy of Andromeda.
This is not poetry. It is mathematics
in as much as anybody is listening.
In as much as anybody is listening
the lorikeets and redpolls trill
imperceptibly as if the sound
of our planet had swung to zero.
Nothing is happening and no one
and nothing is calling and calling
In as much as anyone is listening
the boy vanishes through a door
while his parents shout and snarl
the words none should hear
while a child is in hearing.
This is not history. It is every evening
in as much as anybody is listening.
In as much as anybody is listening
the boy grows tired with running
when a bush bursts open before him
to reveal a wren rampant in song
and everything is forgotten
that needs to be forgotten
in as much as anything is forgotten.