Theory of the Universe Did we learn ourselves from the mirror after we studied constellations in ragged almanacs... we rotated mechanical with a hiss of the so-slow slowing axis... No equation... can yet rebirth a cooling star's impending supernova If the family cello were given to you as it recovered from basement dust... the bowstring part of me moves... without asking to the crescendo of ripples... and F-minor weeping, the lake awake not as often at night the big bang must have stemmed... from a desert string nervous tremolo through the ages, expanding like a lung just before that first breath–
James Croal Jackson lives for art, adventure, whiskey, and music. His poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in The Bitter Oleander, White Stag, and LEVELER. He was born in Akron, Ohio, but currently lives in Los Angeles. Find more of his work at jimjakk.com.