When All the Bubbles Burst

When all the bubbles burst,
in far-off islands,
in scattered space,
don’t blink.

Because somewhere else,
other bubbles
are blowing
into place.

Birth.
Funeral.
The bowtie tear
between shadow and flare,
between a sigh
and the first inhale of light.

But listen—
in other realms,
where thought bends time
and time wears no name,
those bursting spheres
stitch a vast,
handsewn cape.

Each tear,
a thread
in the tapestry of return.

A reverse fall.
Salmon rising.
Not down the stream,
but back,
to the peak.
To the height.

To the pinnacle
of the eagle’s bands
of emanation,
where their glares,
yes, where their glares
merge in collective consciousness,

and dissolve
into the conscience
of Ahuramazda.