The Hollow

The hollow

that runs through your spine

runs through the Milky Way,

the center of Andromeda,

the serpent coils of Laniakea,

one silken thread

of emptiness

that causes all creatures

to quiver and beat

with a weightless kiss.

It is a whirling of atoms,

minds, and stars

into something like a nest, scraps

of twig and berry twined

by the great winged mothering

stirring trembling warming

the round smooth blue

egg of the sky inside of which

is no one knows

what.

Call it the ancient light of dawn

that has not yet been born,

holding in tiny seed cups

the coming Spring,

curving infant embryos, the curl

of their hands, the petals

shaping themselves in dreams

at the tip of a stamen,

the grey stuff in cocoons,

neither wing nor worm,

our destination.

Or say that it is these

twin infinite beams

gazing through all centers

from the mirror of your face

into the mirror of mine

until they collide in

that kiss, the catastrophe

that is everywhere.

O uncreated brilliance,

O ancient light of dawn

who has not yet been born,

fall on us now,

make all things new.