Out of Nowhere
You, you have spoken of a strange phenomenon,
Of a crystal hanging in heaven, never falling,
Of a name that is etched upon the clearest glass.
Admit it: Idleness is the hell of the uncommitted.
Even a criminal acts from some true motive,
But you, you drift, inert, much worse than dead,
Toying with empty wishes in your head,
Watching the snowflake turn that never falls.
It is a six-sided-ten-dimensional crystal,
Looped helices of bubble-lighted tubes,
Whose streaming forces, burgeoning from nothing,
Flow through the forms they make with their own motion,
And disappear into the night which bore them.
But you, you, you desecrate creation,
Idly wondering what you ought to do.