Brainstems Rotating to the Sound of the Divine Imagination

She became bluer than the edge of the sky,

as the beginning of time passed into her flesh 

on vortices of innocence,

the song of the unfinished song 

sweeping down corridors of light and darkness

until a scintillation of the 

first premise descended into a word

and leapt off her tongue 

into the strangeness of the ordinary world,

when the raven and the blue cat 

stood in the grass listening to a thousand pulses

and the crushing madness of the aeons.

*

A single stitch of silver hair began to rise, a thermal of indeterminate 

velocity, like the Hummingbird in an Aesop's fable,

whose memory was chain linked to the diamond that orbits the Promethean 

Night,

feathers fluttering upon whirlwinds against the flow of time

until the hair becomes everything it never was:

a transcendental intimation of some  anonymous hallucination 

happening on the other side of the world,

where the footsteps are rotating in spirals around an echo chamber

containing the Philosophers who create 

the Future,

their brainstems rotating to the color of God's imagination.

*

In the chambered nautilus, there is a curling granule of whispered sound,

a gem like node of syllables

growling, leonine as hope in the jungles of Aldebaraan,

where the timekeepers are waiting to exchange the names 

with the probabilities;

and the spirit is a Verb on the precipice of the Noun,

a cosmological vineyard

empty as the Streets the night the Library of Alexandria

burned to the ground.