Gravitas

it's always there holding on to you like a soured grapeskin like your fermenting whole your body's glove holding tightly there it is always everything in it, like a spinning, holding world containing all from thought form to cloud, seaweed to algae there, the solitary cells frothed into oceans and there the molecules, tired of all those lovesick atoms, attempting to merge and the raw, gaping singularities there, smaller than the escaping minutiae of our existence and the whirling vapors there, at the undifferentiated edge of darkness casting elements out of time's foundry whenever we think they are gone we disappear first for matter never grows older but vanishes again and again like the first snows of winter in an antique snow dome flashing silver wherever the light strikes and you blink once and then it's gone again and you can't see it where it went, but it has to be there hidden behind the little church, with it's thin porous steeple and the tiny frozen stick figures of people, dressed in dark suits and dresses they who fall over one at a time when their yellowed glue finally gives way and who are eternally at the funeral of themselves