Ultra­vi­o­let Cat­a­stro­phe

So say “your aver­age quan­tum physics prof” was stand­ing out­side the stu­dent
Lounge when seen with his hair down and dark as an insanely vaulted for­est—
All trunks, for­get­table leaves, and say behind those mahogany wisps his face went

White a moment. Our par­ents said that, when Kennedy was shot, they watched
Dread­locked ver­sions of wil­low trees, weep­ing. Omniscience—that feel­ing
Sense­less as it sounds, that you’ve a weight and a world on your shoulders

To drop eaves on—told me so. No, no, no, from the mouth of a five year old
Her home, a carpel tun­nel in the hand of a crane—toes the line we adults call
Sin­cer­ity. Until I learned the anorexic form was obso­lete as any other, any order

Of reli­gion, ram­pant hunger for a god—I had it all. Through the plain glass
Win­dow April humors us, explain­ing how “your love of Sea­sons Past could pass
Your ‘grow­ing pref­er­ence for laugh­ter over silence’ off as noth­ing, a fig­ure let go

Inside the soft crush of Spring.” A typ­ist, I’m dis­posed to have what stays, stay
The same: daugh­ters and songs who’ll spon­ta­neously com­bust out of a sheer
Com­bi­na­tion of notes and freak tech­nol­ogy, their ribs—all a-riot, then trembling

Like some stone’s been rolled away.