Telescopic eye moves tongue. Elaborates fiery collapse of heaven
into itself, becomes dying cries of massive stars.
Galaxial dust of living metaphor.


Or proffer, occurs in cosmic deep on average of once a day,
though never the same place twice.
As Heracleitus streamed, weeping


                                                                                                    Weeping.


                    Here’s what I know:
                    Mother’s favorite color combination is turquoise & brown.
                    Mind is trickster business.
                    We are born with inclinations, not fixed
                         identities.


                     A long bike ride with a friend, early summer
                     morning notes, "Gone to see great-
                     grandma," who lived nearly
                     under a bridge, and


                     I on an island, wind-ripped
                     ocean surface like whip
                     whapped against my own
                     surface is something — is recall
                     certain sights and smells, noticeable only when walking.

                     And this.
                    Rays called Gamma or God
                     ask ways
                     we make ourselves suffer
                     and others

                     suffer when we die.

                     And then not.












Italics in top third of poem — with the execption of "Weeping" — attributed to Dr. Shrivinas Kulkarni, California Institute of Technology, interviewed re: black holes in deep space. (John Noble Wilford, New York Times, 5.25.99.)