Here’s an old poem I wrote about four or five years ago:

The Wormhole’s Throat

If I could see elections as mock
reset buttons, I could believe
the future knows more than we do
now.  Dark matter particles don’t
interact with us except through
gravity.  (Explain god.)  The universe
accelerates as it expands.  We’re
nothing more than stellar debris,
creatures of change, looking for
the wormhole’s throat, any way
to go slack, to leap into a tube like
a cartoon Mario, with the idea
of skipping forward to what must be
a better place.  As if we could know
what’s on the other side.