In The Light Of This

On a day that
Dark matters, mattered.
I finished painting the universe.

The cloud seeders with
Bone, skin, feathers, teeth,
Tongues and eyes.
Manifestations of matter,
Are stretched across
An infinite
Horizontal plane.

But their welcoming party
Will arrive from nowhere.

Because a man in a wheelchair
Has flattened
The Copernican centre,
With his projection
Of a holographic vision.
Escher tessellations
That frustrate
With their hint of infinity
At the edges.

We had credited a depth of field
For our certainty of reality
Instead it is a dark matter
That forms
The shadows between us.

Our seeding sculptures
Folded within the fabric
Of it’s invisible cloak

Our rottenness dissolving
On the nap of the black velvet
That skins every molecule
Of our not so solid flesh.

Our electrons entombed in
The dark spaces of
Neighbourly isolation
Deep within the suburbs
Of our atomic cores.

In the light of this,
I see my thoughts
As they appear on
A flat surface,
In front of me.

In the quiet of this,
I hear the sounds
Of anger
Raging in my head

Now in the dark of this,
I dream of bodies
Asleep in dank squalor,
And walk away from them.

And ahead of me?
I paint the universe.
Floating indigo
Actualized by time.

The cloud seeders with
Their atomized matter
Now spread silent
In my hermetic room.

Their welcoming party
Will arrive from nowhere.

Because there is nowhere
To arrive from.