An example of my semi-science poetry:
At seven I discovered the end of the world,
how in four billion years, the sun would expand,
swallow all the planets. Looking beyond the red shift
of the furthest galaxy to see what the universe
expanded into, I understood how people felt
before Columbus, thinking if they went too far,
they’d be eaten by dragons or fall into nothingness.
As I lie awake at night, I wish there were dragons,
because when I peel back the edge like turning
the page of a book, the red disappears and I find
something I cannot understand, a darkness
you cannot call black, and emptiness like the hollow
sound of my heartbeat echoing off the mattress springs.
I might believe in an expanding universe–the red edges
stretch until there’s no more energy and then begin
to return, blue as they fold in upon themselves,
collapse back to the beginning, and then rise again,
Phoenix-like, and we live our lives again.
But everything now moves toward chaos, each atom
with inifinite paths to follow. The intricate spirals
they make as they move towards infinity, look
something like paisley as they copy, repeat,
copy, repeat then become erratic. And what happens
to us if we spiral into infinity, no chance of returning
again? How can I hope to remember you standing
there, pointing at a falling star, saying, Notice how close
it passes to the Pleiades, then brushes Orion?