Another Creation Myth

Moonbow

In the night he speaks: of tearing delusions down, creating an empty box and
refilling it with big probabilities.
In the night I think: the human soul’s taken a tumble. amidst the loss of petal throwers, celebrants, incense burners,
methodist missionaries with their grand songs, candle lighters, prayers, and Indian gurus.
And what about all those illuminated saints? Or prophets ascending, descending, walking the face of the earth.
Or Rainbow serpents colouring the world red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet?
these distillers of myth— for the millions who cling to a creation story.
In the night I stare: into hollow black as a moonbow
lights up the lunar corner
throws a few naturalist ideas my way; spins a galaxy tale or two of how things might
have started in a big bang
it lures me into my cellular self—
igniting a nuclear reaction of hot gases stuck together—
my pattern forming in random acts of copulation
across the never end of patient cosmos time
In the night I dream: Gaga with immensity
pale lights switching on across my face,
tweaking synapses of hope -
for even without a Santa there are presents.