Every Quark

Every quark of gristle

           sings to a star

     about some incomprehensible

           connection

between pain and beauty.

     Angels cock

             their heads, perplexed

and ever so sweetly

      troubled

             by the music

emitted from your nuclei.

      Something about your

               gravity and grief

gives them

       courage. They long

to clothe themselves in bone,

            the very stuff that

      weighs you down

to this mother

           of bodies,

      the planet pulsing

with silver hair, sweet grass,

               empty park

      benches and

               lonely faces

of dissolving frost

     on maple leaves.

               All Gods yearn

to fathom the

      opacity of your tears,

           and smother their

                brilliant souls

in dust.

Cistine Madonna Cherubs by Raphael