Painting the world (with recycled sounds)

Is it at all strange

That we want eternity?

/ /

Given that we wake

And see shapes in the dim

And wish to sleep longer

Dwelling in the lands

Where other shapes have been?

/ /

Isn’t it in the yolk?

And the broken shell

Of our breakfast? Is It

Hiding in the black pool

Of french-pressed coffee?

/ /

Does it not manifest

In the ink of the novelist

As well as in their work’s

Interruptions?

/ /

Don’t we hear the boom

Of the primordial super nova

Transformed

In the aching nothingness

(The frictions amongst

The chloroplasts)

That is the liberty of grass,

Drinking the dissipating light

Of our central star,

Sweating oxygen, which

We need to sing,

Matter That we need to dance?

We do. We do hear It.

And we hope to

Find a party just around the corner

Just for us.

Though it’s not all selfish love.

We strain to extend, draw out,

The words of an old friend,

And to spearhead their efforts,

That their eternity may never end;

We crave

(A limitless embrace).

And it is all drowned in the explosion.

/ /

What is the riddle?

Will we find It?

Is It in the drowning?

Our recourse between

The everlasting

Is to paint

With rigor

Top to Bottom,

Reuse

The bread and the sound,

And also witness

Anything the shifting sands

Form at any time

A perfect glass

Bottom to top

Filled with water.