Beyond our little waxing moon
you’ll find the black holes,
the milky, marble nebulae,
the restless tumbling spores,
rich, rolling clouds that fold
and envelope upon themselves.
This is where the wild meteors roam,
and the comets carve and landscape
the black fabric of the unknown,
where the sandy specks collide
in waltzing gestures, drunk they kiss
and part and kiss again
backdropped by stellar spirals
tinselled with dust,
the back streets to demoted planets.
It gently stirs beneath the surface,
in the cinema sky,
in the cusp of your spoon.
Look up. This could be the warping lens
to another world, a scope far too big
for our breadth or thought.
Otherwise, look down.
You’ll see it’s all contained
in a bowl of miso soup.