Evolution

a blindness
white as canvas
caverns and caverns
of eyes and patterns
blooming upward
through life’s
long long stem

(patter patter patter
go the gammas
on the windows
of matter)

things throw outward:
this is a flailing place,
all holes fill
with a liquid face,
a roared morphology
echoes in the cave,
and now life,
having gone upwards and downwards
and side to side and backwards,
has only inwards
left to go.

but truth has no crack,
no plant, no insect
on which to feed.
introspection
has no natural selection;
here, no strange shape
suctions stone
or breeds.
at last there is nothing,
nothing but yourself
to outcompete.