Inside the white light is fire, holy
or otherwise, strapped in a chair
a moment after midnight, or an insightful
impact, forehead to steering wheel
summons myriad sparks-
inside the deeper space, we telescope
one-eyed, are sucked through, magnified.
There, rebirth is rumored, and there
heaven or hell full blown. Embryonic
we are naked flame, heat, ice, absence.
A surfeit of thought and memorabilia,
every inconsequential moment re-ordered
all lessons of consequence, learned.
Birth on the wheel of death, rebirth
in the fingerprints of dust glowing,
in stars shaken for their secret codes
their minutiae and memory
by hands without substance, too close
too large to divine their form.
We are here, there, now, before-
rehearsing our parts on an airless stage.
Faith, laid on the palms of atheists.
Hope, within pain's fisted crush.
Birth, into a personal second coming
or the dreams of other's, we are unborn.
Copyright © 2003 Coleen Shin