That is the science news, and so are Time's poor fallen arches
thanks to neglected aeons of instant gratification and inexpensive shoes.
True, they said the same thing about our heads and the pebble of our habitation
having hardly length, nor breadth, hardly having anything at all
against the gulf of its environs, not even flat, more of a mote, a point.

It is mostly all that matters to us.

We who are flat, and constricted, we in whom the sunlight deposits microscopic impacts,
and passes through, a stranger -

We who grovel before large stones on the horizon and imagine monstrosities
to placate and commune with
are flat under their imagined weight.

While we try to take hold of even a glimpse of our real situation,
fall flat.
While we labor for distraction for the short moments of our suspension among the flat,
the dimensionless.

Our hearts like to expand, they like to swell
with feeling full and forgetting thier constraints within the context of the paper-thin,
the two-dimensional, the flat.

Should we deny them that?

Most is better not to strain against the pressure to fall flat
To adapt to pressure, to conform to the contours of limitation, to adopt the form outlined for us
by gravity, to flatten.

Hubris, our destroyer, the hand that beckons and flattens, beckons:
we want more than to be flat.
But our imagining that other, whatever it might be, is weighted down, under the (need it be said?)
flat shadows of the stones that seem so ponderous, so immense,
Under the arches of Time and Sky and the flat gulfs of black radiant empty flat expanses.
We would like to expand, and do our best to imagine that we have done so.

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