“infinite matter –
the non-dimensional ‘thing’ of intersecting attributes”
Dan Costello – Alchemy and Me.
“as above, so below”
the Seal of Solomon.
Your flesh is always mortal.
You are the body, you’re not in the body.
Everything changes, including the way
of change and reasons to change.
even eyes first confronting space
where you can resign from extinction.
No one else can. Not even those
who succeeded without trying to love you
and many who will claim you at the end.
Stop dreaming then, you
who won’t allow your death to exist,
though existence is rarely rationed.
who darken heaven. The girls
in cooking class, there’s no way
you were ever blackboard monitor
so you envied them.
From their clean ovens bread rose
steaming like adult thunder
and you heard them hold safety
under their thumbs.
A dozen different angles dug to escape
your heritage prison
which never lightened,
expensive sorrow that travelled everywhere
and sat between threads in the lace of your veil
like a black hole.
were you supposed to keep?
The girls stand along your factory forecourt
at dawn, the orphans. Often
they throw butts in the trailer
door, and every time they do
dust flies up from their feet.
Hurricanes of dust
turn above eternity
and their feet are rough
with answers, scarred by answers.
They have none of your short
As soon as they hear your confession
they answer with their own
and they drop down to deliver you
from a knowledge that can kill
and you kneel to farewell them
like a hostess of dust
dust dance best in the wind,
howling through the fierce fixed galaxies
beyond the here-and-now shroud
of the mother ship?
It rises up in you, and you never
stop joining it. As Alexandria found
in her untimed red fire.
Where do you stop discovering?
Some chance upon your mind from their dust;
they hate being alone. They build
their winter systems out of you.
How dreadful to lose. And now
always the long ago. Long
ago you were a mind.
Matter cold, earth cold, (that) over.
The winter satellites rise
like upper case asterisks
marking the mountain top
where the black hawk wakes.
Back behind reason or excuse,
the last morning of the system. The motes
of your mind apart from the silent
dust of the earth.
And you let them go, big drifting plumes
like smoke from totally unknown towns
and the drums’ deep beating,
riding the ferry of song until
you lose the dust
on tightly woven carpets
in large cities, as if
the importance of weaving, making
all in order from the edges in,
was actually of a moment.
Illumination always throws a lot of light
and you return, fully
arrived from those fires
you your self initiated.
He will leave you in the still dawn,
taking his empty, lightless lantern,
his dust, the dust you never own,
so you can start loving him.
Love has nothing to do
with the end of space.