THE CENTER OF XENON
MYRA PEARSON

 
 
I want to make for myself
a home, a dusky beehive dome
sated with the musk of unborn orchids,
blossoms that glisten when newly alive,

a place for looking up and in,
dreamy, silken, wide and wooden
walls that sigh with my own oxygen,
that give my voice back changed,

tinged by the timbers that resonate
darkly, like the whisper of history
humming in space, crooning to you
and me down the hall of ages to say:

Now I am standing
at the center of Xenon,
awaiting the murmurs
of ever-expanding eons-


and ache for possibilities unrealized,
for the stirrings of the cosmos
that, beneath a breath, materialize-
electric, magnetic, satisfied.

 

 

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