DAY EIGHTY-EIGHT (2015-7-5)
A hypothetical state of being, invisible:
what is the scientific connection that draws one celestial debris to the next,
carries it across the emptiness of the known and into startling, unfamiliar territory,
crosses the expanse of what was and into what could, should, might be
in a streak of hot, bright entry across the dark and starry sky?
Slowly it gathers, building mass, turning, viewing itself in the darkness,
one face under the full, inexplicable light, a globe, a pulsing heart
of molten, simple matter spun round into cooled stone faces.
It attracts forms to orbit, dressing itself in the reflected shine of other eyes.
It is a necessity of motion, a constant, abiding tumble, a fall
into the nearly-close arms of gravity, the pull and fling of yin space desired
and the yang heat of a familiar star. It is loved
for being the brightness in the midnight, for being just out of reach,
and it is loved for the soil, for being terra firma,
for the sloppy, erratic turn of dirt.