Creation

Creation
by Gideon Burton


Not only in the center but the seams
where hydrogen will tear the cold, the black
of quiet space like cellophane that cracks
or curls to cinders in the sudden steam
of fission, or the sharp and mute attack
of first creation: brooding doves and streams
of errant magma wide as devils' dreams
where elements dissemble, vapors stack
and twist to igneous confusions, grey
with sudden sinking, sullen age, or dumb
allowance for the hovering pregnant dove.
Not only in the vagaries we pray:
the pressing wish to bleed and to succumb,
to wash with ashes snowing from above.


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