the pillars of creation billow aeon-long arising, their caryatid clouds concealing depths unplumbed by demiurge devising.
down the milky river swims a swarm of silver stars–aching, every one, with wonder: which will find their planets waking and go gold, become a sun?
Jupiter is made of weather; it’s raining tacks & gods.
against all odds, a cloud becomes conscious of its mirth (to you, that’s mind).
behind the thought food, the thought mate. for the one, for the other, the watchful wild lay in wait.
Sarah’s looking through the glass and seeing where the sunlight strikes the s[tr]and.
a hand’s not the only edge can grip, as thorns well know, while flowers flaunt not how they were designed, but how they grow.
a waterbug marches [al]on[g] the meniscus, sipping liquid soil; ripples rend the pondscape when a skipping rock makes riveroil.
lithophagicolonies dig[est] their way down veins of stone. through a thousand-thousand thorough years they bite that bedrock to its bone.
out from form flows the future of how finitude behaves, as shape is spring and snowfall to what streams across its waves.
after before, on improbable planes, are burn[ish]ed b[l]inding boundings in the brachiating bra[i]nes–let that say, fields of may-be, marked and sparked.
in the words beneath the worlds, the space between Samsa and Ra, there are winds in which witches and wafers are whirled, where concrete consorts with the ka.
and in the silence at the center, surely, even there are currents; even there are counted, in each seven styles of stillness, seven million sounds surmounted.