by Cam M. Roberts
All matter, constellations are laid waste,
primal wreckage strewn hither-thither
where within floating in space
a single speck of stardust
or a far-flung flake of galactic ash
is larger than the wondrous residue
referred to as earth.
Whence we formed from words
exceeding enigma, sifted and strained
through language, this miscreant cosmos
has been preserved for a psychotic ending
by the grotesque hands of a taxidermist so deranged
that his masterwork was a Gothic Cathedral —
so terrorized by extravagance and superstition that people
thought it was in fact a shared and single body
of the holy trinity embalmed
with faithful members of the mass.
The carcass stars burning
through lightyears expendable
are our ignis fatuus —
out there
in the deep, silent hours
where the densest plenum of dark
is embroidered taut in the air:
all horizons nowhere to be found.
Ubi sunt 