The sun is shining for who knows how much time?
The night is collecting its stars
and throwing them into the black milk
of expanding outer space.
It would be easy to revive the ghosts of yesterday,
to call them forth to do the work of thousands of robots.
Brimmed glasses touch the face,
tongues jut onto lips,
and the serenade of the night ceases
when the day comes alive.
It would be easy to call upon those stuck in the walls,
and bid them to tell their terrific tales.
There are things between spaces,
chunks of sadness floating in emptiness
that decide to save their tears
for another galactic day.
It would be easy to call upon the gods we left,
scratching our heads and muttering "whatever".