we will weave the earth this dress of time whichwill outlast us, whatever remains will not rememberus, though, sure, all molecules go into the longcontinuation—“the smallest sprout shows there is reallyno death.” No, that is not my prayer, Walt Whitman. itdoesn’t comfort me. when I speak, slowly, I want theuniverse to listen. permission to pierce the vacuum ofspace with our golden needle-arrow missive sailingoutward, permission to record our human voices singing,saying hello in a thousand languages, permission to drawour human bodies naked, to come down from the trees,permission to dress up in plumage and colors, permissionto bear witness, permission to structure violence inless damaging ways, ritual-dance, football, bake-offs,permission to build the atheneum, the Thunderdome, theviaduct, permission to kneel down in the shower in thefluorescent light, the Bluetooth speaker keening softly inthe other room searching for its connection. I watch themoon come up over the rise of the next hill and take apicture with my smartphone. the dinosaurs were sentient;they lived here for 200 million years.