Quantum particles or
these
macro realms
like scattered jewels—
each one a cluster
of worlds,
each one terrifying
in its splendor,
each one an epoch
or epochs—
it's all the same
through the eyes
of Spirit

Who showed us a
day in the
life of forever,
and what a gift
to a teeming,
questioning planet
to rewind millennia
and peer into the
impossible:

Ravenous, mauling
void,
screaming white
pinholes:
the abyss and paradise
trading places
again and again,
here in a
glassy freedom
running rampant,
going about its
usual business
quite nicely
without us

in the
slow-breathing
star kingdoms and
pastures of
silence.

Imagine:
immaculate, immortal,
opulent . . .

silence

where there
should be legends
that make us weep,
grind us into dust,
crush our writhing
hearts in a vise . . .

Magnetic darkness
like a wordless sage
too evolved for our
prim and
acceptable faith,
our shark-toothed love,
our trifling
mortal stories,

say something.


Tell us about the
rest of it.

Read from the Book
of Omnipotence

here, at time's end
and time's beginning,
where new, polished
thoughts are
possible,

here, in the center
of raging emptiness
and raucous stillness
between galaxies.
Galaxies!

Is this God or another
exhibition at the
palace?

Whatever this is,
for a moment
we are perfectly
cleansed
and perfectly here
and perfectly united
in wonder.


Patricia Joan Jones