Wave to Us, Now

Magic and all things spectral, miraculous,
Fantastical, exist, exist as meanings

And as nothing else, which makes
Meanings ourselves wonder, what are we

In a universe so apparently unlike us
That nonetheless gave birth to us?

Sometimes, we suspect we’re intrusions
From another, bizarro universe pressed up

Against the big bell cheeks of this one.
Sometimes, we think we’re the soul

Of this cosmos simply talking to itself.
Sometimes, we’re just plain flummoxed.

We mean something, meanings, in all our
Cruel, elaborate, inaccurate predictions—

We indicate something beyond everything
Else and we flirt continuously with nothing,

But that fails to explain well anything.
Entropy is a measure of information,

But information is both more and less
Than signs conversing to each other,

Meaning
Meaning.