The Mothers of Prediction

Our false olamic silence
May be truly meaningless
Or conducive to meanings

Unlike any you suggest.
You don’t know. You know you can’t.
No matter how many eyes

You build to open on us,
Careful triangles to catch
Gravity’s all-swallowing

Waves bobbing along with us,
Our spirals burn beyond you
In every sense you create.

You couldn’t cross between us
Without shriveling like flies
Caught in sealed panes of portholes

As you drifted through the dark.
You won’t get too close to us
Without us devouring you,

And you can’t understand us.
But you can watch and listen
And describe us as we go,

Since we are so numerous
That every moment in us
Burns somewhere at this moment.