Cosmogony
I
The eye sets
matter in motion,
desiring all it alights
to be as it is,
as it was, as it ever will be--
a moving likeness of eternity.
Rooted in all things,
standing infinite,
alone,
riding the waves of chaos,
forming structures that struggle
to be what they are.
Time is a space
bound by necessity,
by the messianic rising out of sea-bed
to face old death
in the bloody freshness
of new day.
II
But what of what is not
of vision, of imagined
projection of future?
What of the moments
that might have been,
that were not chosen?
These possibilities engrave
the skin of now
with tragic silence,
filling wet, slapping mouths
with emptiness
that can never be touched.
Endings thus become
beginnings,
endless twistings
around a point,
a drop of solitude pointing,
falling back to meaninglessness.
III
When we fucked
she said
I thought I was flying.
I think of holy war,
collision of earth and water,
destroying, creating.
We watch ourselves,
mouths breaking apart
in terrified hunger
as we execute the duty of instinct.
This is what we can do, together,
this is where we will go, together.
The sense of falling.
The scents of rage.