Seven angels spread their wings,
took their places, hovered, watched.
Eleven children wept by
wisteria not in bloom,
lilacs not in flower. There
is no purple, there are no
tears. "O, Angels of the loom,
weave my mother back into
the warp of time, slow the drift
of hadrons to trace again
my father's face, for there is
no purple, but too many,
many tears." Leaving relics
of flesh, a bit of bone for
the mourning world to dissect
with precision, bury with
pomp, they danced off ecstatic,
one perfect Bang, electron
to electron, dispersed in
the cool wind. At zero, plus
seventy four, marking time,
having slowed down to speed up,
eyeing the peace of space, blue,
deep, the white bullet, tagged
by destiny to explore
polar regions of the sun,
shattered. Whizzing atoms shot
fragmented past facets of
emptiness searing human
images across the clear,
icy void, the nothingness
of free Bubbles of silence.
"O, astronaut, astronaut,
hide yourself so cleverly
among moons that you cannot
be found. Become the marching
universe, become every
particle of it. Let those
who look for you not find you.
O, astronaut, astronaut,
scatter your molecules, merge
with the quarks, be our vanguard.
Send us out, at our choosing,
to explode among stars."
