""Where are traces of the Future?
Siva, the Destroyer, then ?
or Lucifer, Le Cyffre? The Sieve, the Scythe?
The Girdled Stem?
Riddle me a riddle O: if not these, then -
This is the story my people tell:
we close the fist and say Everything in the shape of nothing.
This is the darkness before physics.
We open the first:
... Aware of nothing underneath the round calvarium
of heaven but ourselves, what can we know? Innate
geography? The realms of Sleep? See, the minute
hand set turning on a turning hour
hand is our vernier, and focuses the lens
We calibrate those intervals by parallax
by memory and foresight -
So, the mind relaxes into sleep, the way the nacreous
reflection of the full moon loses line, lanced
open on a piling, say: imperfect pearl
to mother of pearl, the light sleeps out across
the surface of the sea -
And this is the white at the world's end,
the empty parchment map. If calipers set hard,
stab through this parchment now and then,
we twirl them slowly so, and feel
strange sea worms writhe like bait
beneath the surface of the dream - A Cyclops' ruined dream -"
"Homo
sapiens, oh, my! Absurd
computer chessboard re-projecting Adam
in the garden here, who plays his planet
more like pinball, hard, ding, ding - until an onyx
particle arcs out, arachnid trace, a fine silk
trail - to impact, so: entire anatomies
of software spilling loose, a scree of silicon,
ceramic insulators, shivered glass, eight legged
random and imaginary numbers skewed
inside the program's network now unknit
and loose across the earth ... the whole silly
post-apocalyptic picture like a black egg
in the sand, unhatched. An episode unread
As yet.
Nor Constellation Siva, yet ? - still constellation,
nonetheless: the last half centuries pure reason
writ on God's grid like pitch-blende blinking its seine?
One cinder's hot sensation, surely, Lord; but the second's counting,
and the third's thought: cross hatching it's matrices:
see yourself what pure mind's wrought.
... Down the hatch! A tinker's dam for the last math
solving apes for angels: gospel goes false,
always sulphur in the nose, or neutron star collapsing
through it's own naught's noose into the holy trinity
O and mystery again - Poof, no more trinity
of forces for you
Bottoms up! The tell-tale always whiffs this way -
that's gravity - ... "
.. 
. 
