A Hole in the Sky

There's no real eye to any storm.
There's a space a storm makes,
The way the brain creates a self,
That's easy to mistake

For something stable in itself,
An existence apart
To which we can attach a name
That is motion that starts

From other motions, framed in frames,
Expanding forever,
The storm framed by season, seasons
Framed by years, years never

Resting, just as the brain's reasons
Are framed by far beliefs,
Languages, cultures, lies
Framed by races, by griefs

More ancient than the species, sighs
From under the earth, forms
Heaving into lives, selves that storms
Then shake, inform, revive.