All you seem to know
or need to
is that—the voices
go
slow
and yet—somehow
faster
and faster,
toward this
ever increasing
and more
protracted slowness,
as they burst
and spread
farther
and farther
apart, until
the divergence
itself tends
to merge
into one
lucid-
yet-
incomprehensible object—
like a high
spidery
firework—
clinging
to the sacred
infinitude
of night—inside the eye
of the
mind—of an infant.
