GENESIS
Under a troop of fixed stars
there are little playthings of the will –
a hideous universe,
a paradox of dust and mutation.
Light howls off the roots
dug visibly into one another.
Each rib hides a juncture,
a shape so dense it’s stricken;
breath punctuates static –
the soft part that’s always hungry.
Future cities gasp and stutter
toward impersonal nature.
We roamed the earth,
we encountered gravity,
always refracting and distorting;
we fell and bled upon the
black and purple skies.