——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 withlovewe 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:

beats sa(l)vaging
————————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.

The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

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