Does it not seem obvious

Sing, muse, of rusty box springs left to moulder in open lots, home to many a Norway rat, hardy and clever, scion of gorgonian, of cynodont, of whiskered Jurassic night hunter now amid a new and numerous batch of diurnal predators, but the game is the same, the por and tor of sighting the star through the lens and living out a flash in this pale cold reality, wondering what is next on the opposite side of it, like a coin unable to visualize its other face, staring down at concrete pavement rather than up at the coiny heavens.

I remember heavens like that, muse, their bindings fallen to shreds, pictures of nebulae strewn all over the living room floor, places with names like the Perseus cluster, and Cygnus, and now the astronomers among us, these new diurnal predators, have found a great wall of galaxies out there.  Does it not seem obvious that the universe is indeed infinite, perversely so, such that this exact scene, typewriter and droning mechanical white noise, is perpetrated not in one other place this exact moment, but in any number of repetitions, with such a cloud of noise around each one that the series of almost typists, banging out almost passages on almost worlds is an insane jumble, but only the merest edge of that jumble might cross within the space of two galaxies from here..a lobopod in triangulum scratches out a smell message in radio and wire, broadcasting it to a world of plastic lined burrows and warm sultry caverns for this methane breather, same as here, asking about that other surface of the membrane..

..a dishsoap bubble, perhaps to think of it as having two surfaces is to ask too much, but i always wonder about those negative numbers, those solarized photographs, and i suppose that is enough for now.