The night is so open
to our mythology —
put a frame on the dark.
Call this face of Isis,
call that voice of Thor,
say you can see
Furies flying toward us
out of time.
You are well-pleased with this,
but everything you think you know
is in fact chemical lightning
rooting around,
trapped in your meat
inside its bone cell.
The night’s facts are potent
enough on their own.
They don’t need us
to name them.
Still, we must.
I’m drowning in a white man!
Submerged, in fact. Can’t breathe
and my chest is caving.
What I wouldn’t give for a pipe
and some cold air.
Bring on dry land and the sound
of singers and a big, solid drum.
What I wouldn’t give for firm tradition
to hang onto while cousins
pull me up and in!
But, not likely.
I’ll have to grow
thin white gills and survive,
if not thrive. I won’t thrive —
no. What I could give
to thrive, I will not give.
Before leaving for the day
I throw drugs at all my nerves
and all my aches
then check every door
twice: are they wide open?
Can anyone get in
while I’m gone
so I can kill or be killed
when I get home?
I’m the arc,
not a point on the arc.
I”m invisible
if you peer at any point
on this. You need to see
it all,
and this arc
curves through crazy
and penetrates black.
More drugs please
to smooth the passage.
More self-sabotage
to extend the curve.
More of everything
until it collapses,
until the equation that created me
is solved.
Dark Matter 