Galaxy

This swirling galaxy

in the palm of my hand

contains the cosmic dust

of multitudes.

Matter is the antithesis

of mind.  Anti-matter,

scattered in the cavern

of skull, defines edges

gives form to the clouds,

names to the faces

we find there.

The milk--suspended 

with stars, curdled--

is morphing into pearls,

powdered and cast

into the void:  Bottomless

tops that spin and spit

little flecks of flame.

This is a fire, released,

made of horse hair, set free,
at the insistance

of the cosmic storm

that comes from inside us--
raging and rolling,
then passing--

out on some ocean,

black and seeded

with stars.