by John Kendall Hawkins
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I read something not too long ago about stars
devoid of light and life -- phosphorescent dog bones
at the end of time that no god will ever claim,
or dig up space to hide from other sniff-gods,
who woof at themselves in a mirrored feedback lark --
one by one, snuffed out, until nothing's left, nothing.
Dead universe, a one-in-the-many frothing,
cork-popped cathedrals lit by vigils in the dark
of the remembered dreams we call Multi. The odds
are against finding any two ideas the same
and yet synchronicity brings its rhymes and koans
out of which a paradigm appears: The First Cause.
Noam (sic) sails by instinct now, digital sun
breaking through the cloud, hexadecimal sea. One.
Readers are invited to hear me read my sonnet at my new Rumble site. "Dogs Stars? Are You Serious?" is a poem from my online collection, Sonnets of Everyday Experience. Won't you join me?
