And nothing is possible. Not
Always at just this moment, no.
At this moment, mostly, nothing
Much, the garden variety
Nihilism of night soil mulch.
But pitch nothing is possible,
Is the lost face of gravity
That hides in the lights in the dark,
That makes everything and meaning,
Including our many beliefs.
It tugs us like iron filings
Into teams of dark righteousness
That line up and dance grotesquely,
And are clear and are beautiful
And whisper in our longing ears,
Your stomachs lurch, and you feel
The visceral certainty
Of what’s wrong. And you belong.