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These aliens, these made-up worlds of ours, are ways of making mysteries mundane. We see beauty and think it truth. Man's measure grips the world, chokes meaning from it. But you can't escape cages by studying their bars. Laws prison licence in slow spaces, snagged time. So the best of science or of crafty fictive lies presses us into true darkness, away from the lamppost. Beware of the snaky swoop of integrals. Math's mad arabesques can conceal far more than they reveal. It's strangeness we must seek, not more urns so Greek, with their Pythagorean certainties. We must live in the jagged outlands, knowing truth may not fit snugly, can be ugly, and all our own."Bleak Velocities"
There is a place where the sidewalk ends And before the street begins, And there the grass grows soft and white, And there the sun burns crimson bright, And there the moon-bird rests from his flight To cool in the peppermint wind. Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black And the dark street winds and bends. Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow, And watch where the chalk-white arrows go To the place where the sidewalk ends. Yes we’ll walk with a walk that is measured and slow, And we’ll go where the chalk-white arrows go, For the children, they mark, and the children, they know The place where the sidewalk ends.