Longing to culitvate the luminous numinous in my life,
I speak to the mute angels who populate dark matter,
invisible to me; I open my eyes as if underwater, against
the weight, against the sharp sting of salt, and peer
into a muddled kalidescope of colored lights and
incandescent shadows hoping to see the face of that
which gazes at me always yet remains unseen.
For, I suppose, my own good.
For will not the slightest glimpse spell doom
for my own synaptic dancing angels? Will
they not instantly fly home, like seeking like, leaving
me a massless particle of infinite volume, destroying me,
turning me into the limitless and featureless
thing I seek?
I dare not blink.