——1 Samuel 3:1
these days it seems one can only know
——-what God is not &
——-not what God is
fully as though fullness is printed
——-plainly in plain sight
& written in the body
these days it seems the price for the divine
——-is one we cannot pay
——-though we never could
to start with—love—we never could pay for it
Version one of the dream: your body transposes
———-itself into letters. Suddenly
I can no longer read.
————————-You are no matter.
I say, “Now you’ve marked me. What do you mean
——–by this? Are you the secrets of God or God?”
In the dream I can only hear you
——–repeating & repeating:
————————lines of versing.
Often, the Lord is a pillar of fire.
——-Sometimes, the Lord does not speak.
Sometimes, I don’t breathe to ensure I am breathing.
——-Often, the cold enters me.
Still surprising, autumnal pitch
——-& sway of hours baffled into lacquer.
& to think, all this dying. My fool-
——-struck love of earth, its augur & indifference.
Agate, the will.
——As though so finely tempered
——& cleaved into tincture.
Making do with the august letdown of mountains.
& the language I don’t speak
——-wanting you, in my city,
——-this vacant room.
Inscrutable, the language.
The language between the two.
The two lovers & their breaking.
Their breaking of bread in ritual.
In ritual, we are not ourselves.
Not ourselves, but our saying.
Our saying, the language.
The language, inscrutable.