Form

In the vague, it is waiting.  Shapeless, uncertain, what this is/will be/once was-emerges from the thoughtless air.  Made of shadow, contained in vapor--boiling, cooling--here is the miasma.  He contains the creation.  She has become the dark matter that encircles the sun.   As they expire, they breathe the broken language into the stars whose distant heat and distant eyes decline the time to focus, to "make sense" of.  

Blue--or what he will someday invoke in using this word blue--flakes off the crusted clouds like aging paint.  Their is the tarnish in everything.  Underneath or deep inside--in chemical soups and cellular stews--each body begins with weakness, vulnerability, quietly exposed to its own demise.  Rust is the color of our ambivalence, my own, God's.

Slowly I begin to reference myself, within myself.  I take on form.  This is something like mining the sunless eternity of space for pieces of oneself, like collecting shards of oneself--the fragments of a mirror--from the running water at the bottom of a pitch black cave.  

My mind is the darkest room I know.  But warm and cool, the mossy walls are all I need to comfort me, to make me feel "at home".