Sun to Void

I cannot help my gaze
and did not choose this.
I was a flurry of atoms.
I was a disassembled spark.
I desired impression.
I desired progeny.
Then the Lord said unto me:
Suppose a daughter.
Does it please you?
Immensely. Immeasurably.
But I was not myself a daughter,
could be no mother of one or three.
So I was given all daughters.
All blooms, all fruits.
At first, I was a lamp
craned above a clovered garden.
The roots, they suckled the dirt,
and lashed it, and crawled for eons.
Then they were standing upright
all over the earth.
My gaze horizoned.
My origination fogged.
My eyes searched forever,
my gaze compassing.
I asked God to turn me a way,
give me eyelids, give me veil.
Give me some cover, like every other.
God, please. Please ease me, God
until God grew weary of my weary
and fixed for me an axis.
God said: Wait. Repeated: Wait.
I gave you daughters on daughters.
Are you not pleased?
I do not know pleasure.
I know not what I become.
God said: Your touch
is incomprehensible.
Now you know Me.
No fathom between us.
All men turn their faces to you,
but verily, they turn a way.
They tarry home.