sounding back from the gray
clouds and castles and thrones
of Heaven; the Fates
stretching forth their wrinkled,
gnarled, knuckled hands,
and point at the page,
the white bite of a promise.
They say, “this”
with not a spoken syllable—
the kinds of things just known.
And so, it is this
This, this pen and papaer
that has doomed and blessed these bones;
a story I write the end to
and will hold in my hands
until they are cold and curled.
sext: I only ever bloomed between your teeth. Pull me up by the roots. Call it gardening.
At the very least, poetry and science are sisters.
But, more likely, they are the soul and the body,
sharing a single heart,
whispering arias to the universe,
waiting to hear it singing back.