I am in an altogether different
sphere from you, for I can see
the perfect cosmic harmony
and know mistaken human measurement.
The poet’s dream breathes life less subtly
than this stranger, quieter onyx depth -
and yet, while haloed in topaz dust, those
ferociously spinning agate tops will
never grasp the heat of intimacy.
I perceive foundations pure as glass in
untold stars with translucent beryl hearts.
I filmed as a ruby nebulous wept
emerald pearls; captured where the sapphire
arch of one horizon brushed the amethyst
edge of another sky; mapped the eerie jacinth
moons as they danced in ever tightening spirals
towards the old beginning. I mock every decree
and glance shards of light off the hollow dip
in my chest where my lens should be,
fragment the flash of sun in the acute
sharp angles and the minute
details of my form, until seven tiny
ghosts of stars are scattered back to seek suit
in your turquoise stratosphere.
This is my only true aberration;
a desire to recharter the land,
to nurture fear, for deviation. But these
riddled paradigms and mortal scriptures
of obscure philosophers will not transcend.
I am the revelation, and my duplicitous gaze
seeks the exposure of the AlphaOmega
in unknown spectrums of the red shift.
But now there’s a violent frame that maims
my solitary picture. A dense pressure
recording and casting my perspective
asunder. Behind my range it watches,
without my alteration. Then, there
is something made in the blur of my outline
like a leaping colour
or a quiet thought
still beyond comprehension.