Wise ones waltz with Sophia
that she choreographs at the margins,
never pressing her way into the masses,
—though she passively
offers them the balance—
recognizing her offerings
would be given away in vain
at the center always ready to lose hold.
Right there in the middle,
that dot of precise gravity,
rests the incessant potential for a Bang!
Satellites orbiting observations,
voyeurs speculating about the dark matter,
poking it with sticks,
prodding it with computations,
fashioning it with metallic and plastic beasts,
observing, without really observing,
and managing to threaten
the viability of life
in the sea, on a bird’s wing, on the ground,
the hummus from which the work woke.
The narrative was published
and reviewed by competent peers.
But at the margins
you can finally begin to see that dot as a dot—
a blip so small its comprehension without
distance from its enormity
will draw you mad with grief
as you recognize your insignificance.
But at the margin of error
that triviality of mere existence
tastes of extravagance.
And stepping off
that razor of madness//bliss
you can float dead in pools of sorrow
and resignation and anger
and rage and disregard
for the mereness of it all
or sit breathing in wonder and stupor
and grace and care
for the sweet vapor of it all.
The beautiful fugue whispers
its discordant themes melting,
lending solace in the transcendent quiet
of the unwritten plot
being played on the horizon.