Thursday, August 25, 2016


Hubble Ultra Deep Field .

I am not interested
in describing what you
already think you know in
a more interesting way.
I want magic.

You want answers.
Or a system, a grid
to run variables through
so you can say Oh, that.

But mystery wants you.
It stalks your quantifiable
dreams which can so
easily be explained by
chemical and instinct.

It goes for the kill when your
heart swells over your sleeping child
or when you lose electricity for a few
night hours and no one’s there to
whittle away at the expanse inside.

Doesn’t truth beget questions
beget truth beget questions with
answers that are not answers that
unravel questions that dive into
the heart of an answer to find yet
another vast yet-unnamed universe?

Yes—no—love is strange
and unsayable, which is
why we toss it around
in one small word.

It makes the miles of our old intestines
as electric a puzzle as the path of each 
tiny handprint long before birth.

It burdens us with
words that tell who we are 
and a game of subtraction 
that, with such patience,  
closes our distances.

You don’t know what you want
and so you keep dissecting.
I once did that, too, yesterday.

Today I’m ready to
chase down a supercell
in true belief of my smallness,
the probability of death, the
impossibility of telling you
how it feels to be caught up
in that churning cloud.

Tomorrow I may be pulled apart
by that mysterious power to feel
anything at all and be moved
by it—whatever it is.

That we’re not hurtling through space—
that we are—that we’re not suspended
in chrysalis—that we are—
that we reach for each other here—
yet never quite know for sure—
and yet something wholly new yet
of us and our ancient backstory
comes of our not-quite-touching—
it is a miracle.

It is as plain,
as common,
as usual as the
next singular
act of being.

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