you are being.
pointillation
along this
broken
pale
blue dot

lit

with focus
and swarming intent,
strange, and
sometimes dark, yet

true enough:

your words do not simply word
but world
things

into existence;

your mere gaze,
ten thousand and ten gods clod in daisy chains,
whose glance together moves matter into wave,

history into potential origin
re-eden'd, new again;

your light,
never flawed or sinful,
always already
there and
so ******* perfect.

everything feels wrong,
but feels so right.

all the devils
are here
in drag.

worry not poet,
you are only light that matters.

so, play the role.
be somebody.
and make me swim
inside your pointillist earthing spoken,
cursor sojourning
across the blank page that awaits
the next line.