First Notes

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 2/4/08

The explosiveness of our situation had not
Occurred to us. After all, it is the middle
Of the night, everyone is asleep,
And even the stars have disguised their
Fiery natures with the masks of humidity
And distance. The furniture in the dark rooms,
As we walk somnabulistically about,
Seems, in spite of the murdered animals
And trees, completely docile, and pillowed
And sashed in the most innocuous wraps
Of forgiveness. But something in the midst
Of the stars, of our house, of these immobile
Bodies has sparked inside of us, burning
A feverish blue in our cloistered foreheads.
We are not yet fully awake, but that blue light,
As cool as mist and distance, betokens
The existence of a portal, so that even here,
In our slumbering immobility,
A vista is opening, in which the stars
Rush ferociously near, and the house,
With its murdered pawns, suddenly becomes
Urgently sentient and dangerous. Then it happens,
The implosion that reverses the long unfolding
Of time, and in a moment, everything changes.
We find ourselves in the core of the reactor.
Oh, everything changes, on fire with its sameness,
Poor angels burning with angelic fervor,
Whose sole relief is to sing: I am! I am!

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