Folded into the Cosmic Blanket: Poem

Where you going? she chirps from the kitchen.

Out for a walk. Want to come? We strap on our sneaks…

The inside walls of our home have grown stale, set,

Like slightly lemon Jello with pieces of fruit stuck inside,

Mouthing horror in their paralyzed, lemony static… yet

The walls outside go for a few billion light years, and we haven’t seen them all yet.

Maybe the outside walls just curve around eternally back to the center, like a big

Little doughnut: packed with sugar, fat, jelly, quasars, nebulae – delicious

Outer-space loveliness overblanketing our broad, echo-less planet.

We’re looking up as we walk out of town, into the verdant chest of America’s farmland,

Seeing the way the mesmerizing moonlight strokes gently the navel of the valley below.

We catch, or are maybe caught by the edge of a cornfield:

The low, early ears listen with us to the diamond box, booming from above –

As some raccoon-wizard stops to wonder at the bi-ped monsters tromping through his territory.

The second book of Revelation, written first, lays open around us; we’re in it, we’re a chapter of it, we’re reading ourselves and reading you as you read us, and the cosmos burns brightly as a sun…

Melting the Jello in the fridge back home.

Credit: Eric Hines from Universe Today

 

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Thanks for reading (us),

-Justin