are beacons in the night
whose curly hair, dark
melliflous inkblot
the light
brushstrokes of God, dotted
for the universe to breathe.
no breath can hold the sound
of a star trailing off
like ornaments in hair
shining, faceted, cut
showing off, they are pure for once...
not losing that emotion
the shape of the heart.
And the moon is there, a mirror
a cracked sense, a blowing
stuck in the sky along with stars
borrowing their light from the intensity
of being...
blowing.
what is to say that all things cannot be
a living thing,
the universe, a living being
created by God
through speech?
