I can't watch.
The polls begin to close and the counting starts.
Instead, I find Ad Astra, its final hour on HBO,
Where the results are in: We're all we've got.
The movie's futile search for life beyond Earth,
The aching realization of our solitude—
One hundred billion solar systems in our Milky Way,
Two trillion Milky Ways—our universe,
One hundred billion times two trillion and still
We're all we've got is our best guess, infinity
Is difficult to grasp, and yet, as far as we can tell,
We're all there is and all that's ever been.
We're all we've got.
I check the phone, VT, KY, WV, VA, SC, no surprises yet.
The moon is at the window, I step into the cold:
Huge yoke behind the briar arcs, and there atop
The silhouetted hill, colored points of light against the dark,
A solar-powered string draped in the dogwood
To mark where one girls' ashes flourish on the earth.
I check my phone: No battlegrounds, no swings.
Tomorrow, warmer, Indian summer ahead.
Four days hence, the vote is in:
Masked dancers in the streets.
I want to think we won't forget
We're all we've got.
—stills from 20th Century FOX's "Ad Astra," 2019
