~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,
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?