What cosmic globules line the way to Mars?

What subtlety of quark fills up the night

That segregates aloof and distanced stars

And foils all contact, save the swells of light?

Are Something units, pawns in nature's game

Conscripted into armies that repel

Vast hordes of Nothing striving to regain

This universe's bloating, hollow cell?

With puny tools I struggle to define

Inertia's gift, the strings of gravity.

Discouraged not, I labor to outline

The shape of Something, Nothing's cavity.

Give me the proper stylus and I'll trace

The sweeping, endless curvature of space.