Collapse Operator

Here are the words, nervous about meaning

As little as the mute mote in the beam

Here is the dust, beautifully gleaming

Waltzing through a silent, gaseous dream

Disturbance is order’s only author

Gravity presses matter for ideas

Everything aches to be worth the bother

Nothing becomes something, asks what free is

Protostars coalesce, syllables stare

At one another until one ignites

Fusion turns its puzzled look to a glare

A main sequence in fine balance delights

Suns are dust that intimacy refines

Clusters of stars become legible lines