Felt it in my fist, in my feet, in the hollows of my eyelids
Shaking through my skull, through my spine and down through my ribs
You might just be a pandemic. Yet there were deliberate forces in this, deliberate choices, this laughter called grey ringing without echo out and out and out. Just a slow hiccup into the stardust, a spun whisper falling farther without a home, and the garrulous melancholy dimpling at its delicately turned strands.
But you may just be infectious. Paralytic.
They all turn in you, and as beacons in the dark you've blinded each other, always searching for the sun, never seeing the hard-brushed strokes of blistered grace cascaded across the darkness. So, to me, you're all stars. Tiny little thimblefuls of resonance, inundating, teeming in warmth, you've come to swell and sweat, to be belaboured and hard-set against all the stillness. All the missives sent. There are still things that quash, things that bound and burn the light, seething into faint and fuzzy greys, things that dream in unconscious science of anti-illuminary slings slinging arrows through a reedy, pitched night. Such fever and frenzy, such swapping of satellites, an uncouth clinging of gravity's feathered fingertip brought, like hope, in tantaluic mastery, just before the crisp snap of space settled your dust in thin planes and black holes.
But you've never felt so fraught, never so ungiven in the parallel bars spiralling. Only nebulous nearly-limbs lathed into sparks, you still tear each other to pieces, hardly feeling the cosmic-lit destruction toppling every rung and chatter-clapped carnival of lamps lighting your way, sightless and seen, into the ever-contrasting darkness of me. Every blue-black wave of banding oil spilling out in sleep, drawn down into the pale etches flaked in pointillism, every graded pallet a parquet damned by dreaming shores.