Clouds
hang low
like
a gray veil across the night,
the
corduroy face of God Almighty
bent
over the flesh of the world.
One
and just one
shape
of the mouth
pronounces
the ineffable name.
All
existence opens like a wounded sea,
but
only infants read the fishes and the stars.
They
know the moon was born above
such
questions, during a warm hour
when
winged darkness held
the
earth in its breath.
An
orchestra watches
all
the layered
depths
of existence—
and
is at best
noncommittal.
A
violin whines
herself
to silence.
Somewhere,
a silly cymbal
crashes.
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