Quarks and photons
are gross accommodations,
chips of some blown up god
intractable in the mind,
codes, seals, travelling leaves
through the darkening tree
of the Universe, glints
of some dying out unrepeatable beauty,
while earthly leaves
seem to take the place
of other unrepeatable leaves
– there’s no better metaphor.
We’ll all come to fail
to slightly adjust
the right slowness of seasons,
to meticulously unravel
fine roots in the mud,
to line up and name
bone laths picked up
in grassy hollows,
to gauge a patch of sun
in the stained mirror hung
on the sentient oak
– old epiphanies
obeying the law of the cold.
Let the Universe be instead
a bee the size of the whole space,
the shadow the father made
nodding, a code with no message,
a refined architecture of absence,
a voice, whose silence
we have come to decipher,
a tune of gone-silent stars
we’ve learnt on burnt scores,
bleeping back the whale-song
among unexpected whinnies.
Past empty fields, pulsars blow,
hammers held thudding,
black holes spin
wide-eyed webs,
harvest dust lanes
along quiet galaxies,
ravelling them back
to the point of origin
– a bang, a burning.
Being born or dead
is one faint thing.
At the gates of nothing
the hinges creak.
