Infinite regress of the Madwoman's pulse,
the flesh billows in curtains of rosicrucian furies
opening into the Antechamber of Time
a Museum of Still points,
the Hope diamond turning cartwheels
into the question that questions itself
into an unquestionable question
as Christ evolves in a series of non random numbers
along the miracles sleeping in the swoop of a spacetime curve.
*
This hurricane is composed of inexpressible thoughts
a storm of resonance,
the name of God assembling on the Edge of a Teacup
in the nameless Hotel,
where the dead men sleep in upside down Oak trees,
throwing acorns at the Unknowable Face
as a Salem Witch hunt catches fire
in the hearts of the Local Women's Club.
*
The New World explodes everywhere simultaneously.
The sky is a Nitrogen Sapphire,
clouds whisking on rollercoasters
through the knotted ligaments of human superstitions,
curling eyelids into musculature full of
enzymes that
remember the day Baba Yaga began to travel
across the Bering Strait,
her eyes,
crowns of aurora borealis in the Russian night,
feathered cheekbones
rising and falling
with the wisdom lost in the World of Unbelievable Truths
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