words

out in the night,
lightning,
waves of it behind half-clouds
conjure memories not belonging
to any living thing one
but of the whole,
the passing of things
in the dark.

the macrocosm,
the aggregate that stills
all questioning and motive,
a voice beyond reckoning,
a singular point to draw from,
inward the quiet that has
quelled from without.

a suppression,
there is little to do
in the scarring of this mountain,
it is of itself a thing
with which to wrestle,
to spend years in such vain struggle
to bring down that which has no axis,
no symmetry to identify.

a brilliance,
lost in the vault of space,
judgments lacking a judge,
all worlds formed by the intersections
of opposing moments,
your memory a slight against the rain-slicked eves
of a childhood you are still rooted in.

-S.C. Martinez