Poets always want to know the same thing. "How," they will ask, if you slow down long enough for them to approach you on the street, "can the stars and galaxies have formed in this manner? There's simply not enough matter out there to explain it. Things should be very different."
You might sigh, depressed that the poets have lost their way. "Dark matter," you might respond. "Physicist are working now to prove that it exists. Neutrinos. MACHOS. WIMPS. Dark matter must exist out there. We just cannot see it."
Poets always struggle with the notion of dark matter, refusing to believe in something you can only see through math. "I think that I shall never see..." they might say, trailing off into silence. Poets, now that they don't have to struggle with meter or rhyme, have too much time on their hands. This leads to their constant vexation over subjects upon which poets have no business dwelling.
"The sunset is lovely this evening," you might suggest to them, trying to get them back on track.
"What?" they may respond, peering up and through you as absently as any professor of physics. A poet should never look through a person as if the person isn't there. A physicist might pass right through, as might a neutrino. A poet, however, should lose themselves in the depths of a person's gaze, or find themselves. A poet should notice the damned sunset. "Everything caves in. Even light cannot escape. Singularity."
At least it's a haiku. That's something, I guess.
Hello, friends. How are you?
Later. Love.
