Out of a deep time and time ago,
another abrupt transition:
transitionless transition to be uncertain,
render a Cosmos chastely defined:
All but Death, Can be adjusted
Dynasties repaired –
Systems – settled in their Sockets —
Citadels – dissolved – ((Emily Dickinson’s Poems: As She Preserved Them,
ed. Cristanne Miller, April 11, 2016, p. 387.))
They matter little, any of these transitions,
in a world out of transition,
skewed toward extinctions,
one soggy bawling flop
of tantrum after another
And promises:
soothing plots and righteous lies, human delusion—
self-delusion—
the kaleidoscope of mirage that clears to a mappemonde
hand-illuminated in the shipwrecked brain,
if we may re-compose any theme
wave-swept into some greater form
like the sea-beast that warns us what’s uncharted
in the brain, our escape from linear
reality to re-join our fellow mammals.
*
Vitiate the vitiation of history.
Blind mouths! What we explain we confuse.
What we confuse we strive to re-liven.
Truth cannot be un-poetic, I fondly
dream, fondly mis-attended.
Doglike I would circle the cosmic habitat—
When I turn round to check
the geography of dark space
I am cheered by the sight of Earth,
my guide to the mooncalm trail of stardust
behind me. I would probe
the cosmic wholeness of inner
selenity.
