Words at random conjure in inner space
a far mirror of chaos, yet tantalise as
in the deep they flaunt spinpoints of light
glancing off suns and fired in their ancient dance.
I summon any, and all with angelic grace in
their great scatterings, to shape
constellations out of the nebulous
light now reaching to us, reaching
through aeons of photons
flashing marvels to become
this little numen in my hand,
sprung like the genius of the flame but
a Spirit more generous, and more
gracious than any called forth by command.
Time is of no account: no matter;
this gathering of breath,
words in harmony or discord from
primal depths surface in this
moment: angels emergent, awoken
take wing, unless pulled together
by the lines we cast to catch them in, so
to set into stellar tapestries
of cosmic maps, the celestial deeps
proclaiming fantastic exhalation of stars,
starbursting into infinity.
Such are these words: assembling a thing
infinitesimal among its kind, held in
a matrix of sound and meanings
outdistancing mind — this
is a poem, which lives beyond sight,
but drawn and spoken to being
from air and angels in community
with dark matter, a promise of light.