~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?

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