Dark matter, are you
sparkless
for lack of knowing
better? The room

you've spun is distant
and indivisible—
a flickering lapsarian,
you satisfy no mute

progress but
collapse, spiral, winded
by unwinding. Dear
enigma kid, dear psychic

soft spot, I write you
from under eight spastic
lights, each falser than stars,
to promise I'll will

the darkness out of you
or I'll will myself
to trying. Twisted
mister, my incipient
sir, you be in charge
of the what-if, I'll master why.