Assuredly, those who move among us unseen,
who slide blindly by mirrors
and see each other as wisps of smoke,
inadvertently riffling curtains,
accidentally startling small children,
flying above the feathery cities of Cassiopeia
floating through ethereal libraries of genealogy,
meeting each other in the charmed cafés of Polaris
for vacuous mugs of ectoplasm,
chatting: whusp whusp and chuff chuff…
hover, celestially, above it all.
But do they gather at the gauzy river
between Sunday and Monday
to pray to the Great and Good Solid?
Do they debate and theorize the existence of
the Great Solid and Its human attendants
and our diurnal ministrations?
Do they preach of the fall of an ancient Human?
That old dissuader of the specific and particular,
and the singular position of Solid?
That seducer who makes war against the viscous and gluey.
Is their commission to evangelize of the cosmos
beginning at the Milky Way?
Convicting all the lost incorporealists
upbraiding the a-somatics, the a-anthropists,
warning of the consummation of substance,
singing with anticipation, the time of Emanation,
which is preceded by the final Occlusion,
ushering in the great day of Manifestation.
The great and terrible day of Solidity,
when all will be matter.