The mote in the breath
A last breath streams across the sky,
punctuated with moments and lives
and worlds and impacts and crumbling craters.
A last breath where dreams are traveling
out to the distant past shooting thoughts,
impressions, epiphanies back to the dot
in the sunbeam in the last breath. Unrealized
zeros and ones wait to be put in order.
I saw our past, I hypothesized our future,
in that last breath — but — I never saw
our present place in that last breath. Because
in that last breath we were only a mote, lost.