Strange Matter

The song sung in the inch
of ion breath between our lips—
a plasma sea whose waves
are not contained

by small dark cars
or hand-smudged walls,
the widest desert plain.
We do not sink

to lowest places.
Gravity is no master here.
What shape can hold
our spreading body?

Fashion hands
of words and paint
and still our gyres ooze.
Strange outstretched sun,

fine filaments,
these magnet arms
conduct the infinite.
We let it move.


2 Responses to “Strange Matter”

  1. eduardo says:

    Oooooow… Me likey!

    You had me at, “The song sung in the inch/of ion breath between our lips—”, and you had me further with, “…and still our gyres{!} ooze.”

    Only the bestest, tippiest-topnotch poems are allowed to us, “gyre,” and you earned that right.

    Could we call this poem, “Universal”?

    • wordweed says:

      Ah, yeah. Gyre. I find it cool that plasmic movement can gyrate around a magnetic field. And what with Yeat’s “widening gyre,” how could I resist?

      Universal, yes, but also very particular.

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