Finding a slice of aural light is hard in such vastness.
Matter has really a spare and comic life, don’t you think?
So, by the grace of science, we drill a hole into this comet
to find out when and if and how we ever hope to live.

Up above, a cosmic ticking; down below a fear of heights.
Surely our souls are kinds of drilling,
nosing through a hazy light. If we can,
we’ll hole creation; then carve it up like christmas cake,

piece by piece undo its structure, bit by bit
examine it. Switch off the switch, my dear assistant,
pull the plug on all of it. Dark and cold,
it may be saner, just to stop, disintegrate.