Little Filaments and Voids

At someone else’s sink

In a house in the woods

In mined and logged mountains

Now pocked with second homes

Scattered through second growth,

You lean, washing dishes,

One arm in soap bubbles,

One hand holding a sponge,

Thinking about the deep

Views of the universe

About to be released,

The descriptions of them

As the interior

Of a sponge where there are

These little filaments

And voids. What gives you pause,

In the suds, with the sponge,

Is that prepositional

Notion, interior.

The deep interior

Of a sponge, that’s your view.