say (who 
says) that we (not 
you) were born with a bang,
and a big one too, as though someone 
set off a cannon or popped a balloon or dropped a (holy) book.

They say (well one said)
that reality is relative
(like pronouns and money):
I could fly fast and light
and return younger than I (not you) was.

Others say (still)
that (we) matter is double:

particle     and     wave
certain      and     potential
known      and     probable

Something about a cat (it must be 
dead by now).

Now they talk of dark
matters invisible
that are more there than we (and you)
but we all know that
darkness is just a way to say we don’t

This is
science says

But I think (you just proved it)
that the world is made of words.
The bang was a whisper: the singular (it) I
echoing and expanding into what matters,
into particular waves of us, 
spiral-bound by mysterious darkness (the black holes 
under the bed). By now the word has become
an epic, maybe too long, the beginning forgotten, plot lost,
but maybe the cat at least would have lived if it had 

a name.

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