The spiral galaxy dances the collapse of gravity, reaches
out her arms to balance, and spins the mystery
whose beauty you cannot unravel. It is a play
with no proscenium, no final act or denouement.
It is pulsing wave on wave through rushing waves
and pulsing particles on particles through jetting forms
on forms on metamorphoses of morphing spurting primal light.
It is light transformed by being ripped by space,
a thousand silhouetted images rippling through like sands.
It is a remembered time, curbed by the looking-glass
of a half-time, of things made once under the half-perceived
sun, crippled for its primary-colored metaphor
of primal A, B, C, and clay and chalk and curves of time.