Onion, heron, Timor,       we've turned around

to see it coming, cometary,        brash as a handful

of wheat,       more staid than Yahweh's balls.

Use a model       of accident--whorl

three or more,        note interruption to this

from what, to us.        Lecture a face-of-god

nebula, latherings of hole.        Renumber an eon's lapse

of vapor congealed to toast.        Imagine water,

static, and stir to clavicle,       drought before conjecture,

Nausea balancing cancer.        At last you have fetus,

why not quark?        It all bonds down to less than us:

growth/aversion/orbit.        Even closer--primal roil

of cosmic yadda        gone fusty in a potato blister.

Without choice,        soon beyond reproach,

we embrace a need        to avulse, no more

chair-legged speech,       just pretty little angel eyes.

Made whole by        the certainty of emotion,

we see the ocean as future. Above it stills the warm

canopy of carbon's oeuvre.        Quarter shells of moon

on water are unrestored        while beetle

and milk-pure hours recall        their obligation to oil.

Nothing can be        new or what it was, now or ever.

A fossil need        to outlast ourselves

has been removed        from not one imagination.