God
by Geoffrey Ayers

Runestone, volume 8

There’s a thing
that is in a place

pitch black
stumbling through thick webs

ripping each silk strand
coalescing each thread

into a ball

that is wrapped
discrete
plummeting

ripping more threads
adding more weight
gathering speed

until, as a pit, it
rests. All threads defer,
reluctantly attaching
their frayed ends
to the orbital mass.

Created, the structure bends
but does not shear.