On reading Virtualis.
The world is an urn and a flowerpot
whirled through a thousand fractures
presented as fresh each day
a new grief / a best guess
remonstrating with that first flame.
The catchment area of consciousness
manifesting without irony
ever pointing at pressure, heat & dispersal
no mouth, no eyes, and yet there is a record.
Sad to walk
under a pitted and still perfect moon
to speculate of other lives suspended
in that backdrop, radiant with stars.
For they are there, attending whirligig systems
and that distance can be spanned
with all these fragile linkages
the coded tithes of empathy
as my thoughts consent to be used this way.
I will imagine you, poet
perceiving me across this gulf
and lose all place and time
before a sky transformed into an altar.