I feel the presence of a
shimmering sea of stars
(illumined thoughts,
Love's intelligent substance) as yet
ungathered into a galaxy—
uncomposed into symphony or song or written word,
unsculpted into entity.
Unformed.
For purpose, there must be identity,
for identity, FORM.
Unsystemed stars, uncomposed tones,
unarranged words, ungathered shapes
would have no "body"—
no identity, no name or message no purpose.
