From a mound of mown hayfield
electrified by fireflies —
the firing, dreaming synapses of the sleeping world —
we watch milk stirred with dark smoke
spread across the deep life of the sky:
the pale, exposed, enfolding breast
of the mother of what is.

Her movements and unfoldings so slow
they seem suspension, hushed
by the silent roar of all things
held in one complete embrace.
Body of light
whose cells are suns
whose sinews are streams of interstellar dust —
some dark with spent matter,
some glorified by new worlds of fire —
whose birthings are illumination,
whose deaths cataclysmic,
whose gravity enormous:
peace and beauty and dramas unfathomable.

Relentless mind of science,
probing deep into her secret anatomy,
seeking answers and first causes in
her utmost core — stunned to discover there
an emblem of creation, and power, and love:
from the awesome furnace of her center bursts
an exultant stream of pure, particulate light —

fired like a cannon
from the heart.