Birthing— Poem by Leo Briones

whether it was blindly abstract
or specific as an arrow—
that bursting star
said something to me
about permanence.
Even now I can smell
the bloom of the its flicker,
the original charge and thunder
that is always new—
yet older than molten rock,
than gaseous gatherings
or cooled stone.
I know somewhere
deep in the reaches,
like paused breathe,
or quick fright,
I cannot forget the motion of sound.
The lack of everything to the profusion of all.
I touch the first grip,
whiff he original sweat,
dream the splitting of
chaos and reason
before I could think of either.