One Boat

by Jonathan Buckley

A memory of no atmosphere. A scene observed – experienced by someone else. I possess it, but am not in

I remained in the shallows, or on the surface, looking down, sometimes marvelling, but never within it.

The words orbited the nucleus of the explanation, but without mathematics there was no means of making contact.

in that moment occurred the first cause in this particular chain of causation.

I steer, but the propulsion is not mine. It’s like gravity. Skiing down the mountain, taking one of the lines you have to take if you want to stay upright. The lines present themselves. Swerve left here or right – and you make the choice without thinking. Something like that. I am proficient, and so I don’t fall, but I am not in charge.

long life and a short life are the same, because the present is the only life we have – the same for everyone.

energy that went by my name to collapse, and become a different arrangement, barely anything would be changed.

Death is imminent but is nothing; we are negligible; it is senseless to mourn the loss of years that do not exist.