The Migration of Polka Dots from Void to Jungle to Sun to Void to Sun to Void

Willow of glowering Towers,

the branches of the celestial wisdom 

spiralling out into rooftops where the New Gods

wait,

their suntans igniting in perfect sequences of chromosomal

supernovae

every last dollar bill raining down like some monsoon 

of human moodrings

a thousand stitches in the wound of Godzilla,

the green sky on the edge of the Horizon

bursting into Machines

that Burst into applause

that bursts like the sound 

of Mimes in a Funhouse,

astonished narcoleptics crashing to the floor

to the sound of one hand clapping,

but still: 

nobody knows 

what the Hand is Clapping for,

until the Sky turns colors and the Chameleon 

arrives,

dressed in the Flag that they Found 

at the edge of the Cambrian Explosion 

when there were stairwells of light 

that could be climbed 

simply by opening an eye within an eye,

harmonics of wisdom

coded in the Migration of Polka Dots