Dark matter, are you
sparkless
for lack of knowing
better? The room
you've spun is distant
and indivisible—
a flickering lapsarian,
you satisfy no mute
progress but
collapse, spiral, winded
by unwinding. Dear
enigma kid, dear psychic
soft spot, I write you
from under eight spastic
lights, each falser than stars,
to promise I'll will
the darkness out of you
or I'll will myself
to trying. Twisted
mister, my incipient
sir, you be in charge
of the what-if, I'll master why.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem