Pareidolia

                Flickering, humming
fluorescent lights are years and years
from violent stars. Palms against
    plastic chambers press
            the monologue
                into awful moments
    of listening, fingers tensed
bent abstractions, forgetting
            that I have eyes.
 
    Radio static evolves into cells, pulses.
I can faintly tune in to the sea-rush of capillaries.
    I seek for the minutes to Jupiter
        and hear whale songs there.
 
                What's the difference,
        astronomer? Astrologer?
    Modern depths and distances,
hell and heaven of ancient understanding
    both, far and near emptinesses crawl
uncomprehending chasms that hear
            minds, see echoes ―
 
Cut the audio.
 
                Monitors pulse
in sterile clarity, flay sinusoids from vital
        static by soundless analysis.
 
        Feel cracked lips.
    Touch the keys.
This isn’t that abyss.

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