i.

there is a weightlessness
	to things misunderstood

as if rocked in bellies of lightning

in a word,

	cloud-struck
	
there is a gravity to solitude
	that only matter can fix

i close my eyes and imagine my body, 
	magnetized and finite
tucked into the folds matter has given me

i rest beneath the eyelids of a hazy dreamer
i am the matter of his unconscious

and he is the dream 
	i myself am dreaming

beautiful yet strange,
the moon makes
	an unnatural lover

as the sky walks onward, against the haze
though the certainty of rain 
	is palpable

ii.

matter is zen; matter on kitchen countertops
and constellations leaping with artificial light 

matter is probable, even necessary
	if you believe the newspapers

“matter is dead,” they say 

only a poem kicks up its feet
and distills matter like orange juice

“cosmogony!” says the poem 
on further contemplation of itself

these phrases are wearing 
	unexpected shoes

iii.

matter meets expectation:
	i fold the dreamer into my arms
like a soft configuration of feathers

matter is yielding, even maternal; 
i am the dovetail of his subconscious obsession 
		matter is the anima of lost balloons

adrift on a forest of matter,
my body unfurls itself 
	like a love letter to the cosmos

conscious only of the possibility of flowers 
	outside my window

matter blooms 
like an impregnable source 
	of eternity

and i, the recursive waters 
as a solar system 
	slipping through the cracks

---

First, this is a revision of an earlier poem. Second, I don’t typically include multiple images with my poetry (because I’m afraid they’ll compete with the poem), but I am in love with these junk journal pages from FairyNestDesigns. And I think they’re a fun addition.