As I leave, I lock the door against last year,
see a red kite unmobbed above the poplar.
It’s as if all we have are still lives’
shallow depressions in a web who knows who
draped across contours between moons,
unknown time and gravity ditches’
dark matter chronicles, anti-force
plugholes, tunnels, vacuums and voids
in which the Great Unknowing
here and now morphs into unbecoming.
The final outcome, destiny implosion,
all meaning folded or scrunched like paper
for recycling. Then repurposed souls
will drift through celestial apocalypse
outposts of the inhuman or stop, stuck like limpets
shuffling on a scrap of debris in the dark.
Tag: soulrecycling
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Dark Matter Chronicles
Wilderspool Causeway 