Their Infinite Questions

When you live
one or two galaxies over
it is hard to measure
how fast the youngest stars
run out to do
their roughhousing—their disks
around them like hula-hoops,
their infinite questions
about spin, water, evolution:
How do we ever answer
as they shine up at us,
a crackle in our best theories—
we could say there are seeds
of you already,
born deep into the dust:
but they never will believe us
as they stand there writing
haiku to planets,
turning their small faces
closer to the sun.