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–

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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.

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