Sorry so long to leave these echoes haunting,
I've found ways to space and spend time
writing poems in light,
far too long away to cast words over shoulder
and hope they plaster this page.
Amidst a twisting nebula each mote
a pinpoint against my skin,
something like
inverse goosebumps
spreads its feeling within,
I think I'll grid the yeses and noes
and count them all by quadrant;
five plus over my right eye,
four down under my nose.
I am luminesced and peering,
yet this is a bright cloud and
hard of sight are shadows.
Author notes
The title of this poem references the phenominon by which objects in space moving away from the viewer appear to shift into the red end of the visible light spectrum, due to the "streching" of light as it travels away from the object.
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