Pareidolia

Flickering, humming
fluorescent lights are years and years
from violent stars. Palms against
   plastic chambers press
           the monologue
               into awful moments
   of listening, fingers tensed
bent abstractions, forgetting
           that I have eyes.

   Radio static evolves into cells, pulses.
I can faintly tune in to the sea-rush of capillaries.
   I seek for the minutes to Jupiter
       and hear whale songs there.

               What’s the difference,
       astronomer? Astrologer?
   Modern depths and distances,
hell and heaven of ancient understanding
   both, far and near emptinesses crawl
uncomprehending chasms that hear
           minds, see echoes ―

Cut the audio.

               Monitors pulse
in sterile clarity, flay sinusoids from vital
       static by soundless analysis.

       Feel cracked lips.
   Touch the keys.
This isn’t that abyss.