~for J. Rouleau

  • The size and swiftness of our ignorance
  • is like the surface area of an expanding balloon:
  • the stuff we know, our breath, all inside;
  • beyond the thin rubber skin, magical air.
  • The more we know, the more widely we touch
  • what is mystery still.
  • Angels and demons of our long memory
  • changed the weather, the climates of our hearts.
  • We waved meat and sheaves to them
  • and they answered yes or no;
  • we tamed them, condensed them,
  • and nothing changed.
  • We knelt moving our lips,
  • sliding crystal beads through our fingers,
  • and He said no or yes.
  • Now, on this common rock,
  • beneath the inhabited sky,
  • we breathe
  • into the dark blue sphere of our certainty
  • the very breath
  • of what we thought was god.
  • And inside and outside,
  • still, we hear the Voice:
  • What about this?  And this?
  • 2001

For some reason, today I can’t format this without the stupid dots.  What about this?

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