It’s Time

We try numerous ways
to wrap our verbal minds around it:
that which even the muse of annihilation
cannot conceive arises now as the reflection
of itself, revolves, moon-like, in mysterious orbit
around the dark matter which witnesses indifferently
all such transparently imaginary displays, itself already
melting into the unknown, unseen source of its own
altitude, already cavalcading in a fine romance of
lyrical logs which burst into wordless blossoms
of light, right on schedule, and in lieu of such
magnificent rhapsodies, such grand rafts
of echoing suchness, even the demon
of poetry, that clown, realizes
it’s time to close up shop.

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