The world most assuredly rides through the stars
on the back of a giant nameless turtle. Eternity
dictates every possibility and every impossibility
is so, and so it is. Without any doubt the turtle swims
and I am there, forever until I am no more, upon his back.

The little minds that think big things full of tiny sad logic
imagine a turtleless existence where the stars are only
gas burning in the void, and the world is only a mote of dust
circling forever as if forever were always — and we know
it is anything but that. You can say the truth

is complicated or simple, you can say whatever you’d like,
but the size of a mind and the size of the logic are irrelevant.
All that matters is the turtle swimming beneath us,
invisible except as a Terra pin — a place to stick the world
until everything that must happen has happened

and everything that must have been has been.  Remembered
this way, existence is neither void nor star nor mote of dust,
it is the must-iness, the orderly happenstance that percolates
into the cup of yes, overflowing to wash away the very knowing
and the destructive blizzard of certainty. Godful or Godless

the turtle swims on. I, upon his back, remembering only that
which is rife with might, knowing nothing but the wash of void
and starlight and the gravity of a situation that leaves the universe
rumpled and directionless as bodies rolls this way in that on her bed.
Alleluia, the jellyfish sing in a stinging wordless symphony and I with them
sing on and on and on and on and on and on the turtles back.