Sonogram

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.