The first chore of consciousness is to
remember that it is darkness,
and that some of that darkness is bone.  
Its these molecules that grew tired from all the fuss of Gravity
and slowed,
and built a circular cathrdral and
from it cast long outreaches ******* more
but its not enough so there is skin, sailed between
and catching breath for the movement dreamed.

The music never catches rhythm
Scaffolded Sky never takes hold
The words begin to leak stars between them
The music is only gravity, and nearly as old

Whistle-ical light,
If sunlight were like gaslight
Then the universe would drive
Past my window, the crunch of snow
Under night.

Whistle-ical light,
If sunlight were like gaslight
Then the universe would drive
Past my window, the crunch of snow
Under tires

That way she taps you and grasps, says
"the universe is moving me too fast
And I need to hold on"
Every half second God rebirthing (imagination)3
(imagining)3 the (imagination)3 of imagination’s (imagining)3.
There’s something about standing before the sea
and a picture of a solar system,
Something about the bare heart of youth
daring Gravity for the poetry

Oh, Christ
Am I death?
Everyone has always looked at me so
Eerily
Perhaps my mother split me with Time
I am Gravity’s cantileve.  
An imaginary house I revisit in
Capillaries crackling with dreams

You can’t cut silence with light.
It’s not that fast
You’ve seen Death in reflections
It’s where autumn leaves cross-stitch a path

I cannot **** God head on with helmet
It takes glances of a short sword
When words skip steps and seasons stutter
The universe is math blocks slowly toppled with
ROAR

Oh, Christ
Am I death?
Everyone has always looked at me so
Eerily
Perhaps my mother split me with Time
I am Gravity’s cantileve.  
An imaginary house I revisit in
Capillaries crackling with dreams

God will die from art
All of the decanted kerosene