The stars make a picture in the sky
of places that you’ve been
that you can no longer see.

You look for the aurora borealis,
but no one sees it.

No one sees it in the dark.

It’s the small genius inside the head
of the man whose mind works the
square root of galaxies
in a matter of minutes.

His mind presses against his cranial cavity,
begging to be heard,
in the silence of what he’s not saying,
in the gap between sentences,
when you hear a whisper of desperation,
of the human heart for understanding.

You look for northern lights and no one sees them either.
Just the quiet pulse of radiation,
pushing at the limits of the atmosphere,
straining for light,
until it explodes into parsable phenomena.

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