Deus Ex Machina

Outside the quartz glass curled a world
in the cradle of hemispheric        
crepuscular wings.  
   
You stride an exercise bike as a masochist  
under the vacuous pressure that atrophies down the bones.  
I've called you a jellybean before, but this was the first time you believed it —  
   
in the titanium dildo by which we penetrate the stars.  
   
Not far from the Saturn rings,  
floating rocks  
that akinned to design from the observatory,  
what can you say to free-falling dust?  
I would sniffle for pump and circumstance,  
except the atmosphere in my top hat.  
   
Pull the folds of Eta Carinae  
above the consecrating clouds of absorption nebula  
through which travels no earthy light.  
   
And  
alone Dear?  
   
Maneuvering Kepler's rock and voice cracking a moment  
at the wisps of air only convected to storms,  
   
I'd accept anyone —  
cockroach, rhinovirus...  
   
The sweat from angry suns      
supposed to source a life  
or the bubbling foam at each galaxy  
of some territory marked.  
Though inflation of a dime to a chakram could've bumped in a second universe,  
per cold spots,  
this universe proper hasn't shown itself even a hatchling yet  
of one extraterrestrial mosquito.  
   
Now  
I am near a tide,  
though not in distance of the satellite of the only world,  
and must leave you  
in your exploration.  
The deep space immerses each planet  
for the enlightenment we could have made at home  
without the federal debt on the brow,  
you lonely dear.  
   
Our labs on Earth travel to the edge of cells like the tirade of this dying star your manual override resigns us to;  
   
holding algorithms of the beginning of days.  
You might say in your failed coup de mathématiques,  
"If we can't create on purpose, don't be so convinced that the world was created on coincidence,"  
   
but  
then  
how far is the soul from the skin?     
Less than a thousand light years      
to consider a reverence of the far shore of the unseen  
aside the agoraphobia of the near shore of flat universal plane;  
     
to conceive,  
for all the self-inquisition  
of existential soliloquy  
feeling up a dark band room and tripped through plates of percussion,  
maybe so.