Dark matter, are you sparkless for lack of knowing better? The room you've spun is distant and indivisible— a flickering lapsarian, you satisfy no mute progress but collapse, spiral, winded by unwinding. Dear enigma kid, dear psychic soft spot, I write you from under eight spastic lights, each falser than stars, to promise I'll will the darkness out of you or I'll will myself to trying. Twisted mister, my incipient sir, you be in charge of the what-if, I'll master why.
Today's poem is copyright © 2010 by Jennifer Chang. Used with permission of the author.