Leaving? His, the dreams? His, these choice and tender tones, all
Too little too late for those who will be sooner told what is
By those who cannot hear His melody, His
Several Announcements, yes! The heart turns not to the call
For walls but to creation in itself, as scribbled on the slates
Signed upon the obverse in sundry geometric redundancy. Obliquely seen
We spy the models, traces, outlines, former dispensations, the obscene
Graffiti of the worldly scribbled in a clay-bound plate.
This? Not He in This, no! but That; the earth
Born in caul, the offal left, his mother’s goal is realised, her manifesto declared.
The promise of penultimate breath echoes in the Text with nothing spared.
Patient in patience, lover of all present laughter, the child, eternal mirth–
Of course–is etched in slates and scales beyond the present worried worm;
As from the womb, to this He comes so far; so too, to that He must return in Spiral motions, springs, and in the riverlets of natural seconds, tiny buds
Aligned within themelves with all the other benchmark orbs
And gentle points of sweeping reference. Our symmetry absorbs
The oddity of growth in worldly and arbitrary minutes: as the muds
Decree, the hills agree and we are of course its sands and random beaches.
Numberless and unadorned, emerging abstracts form our concretes,
Limpid liquids recreate themselves as pliant canyons, sculpted palaces; discrete
Particles mustered in battalions to address themselves as crystals, breaches
In the granite veins that will allow the light in time to pass on through.
And as we stand disarmed in deaf amazement, we ponder
What natural majesties must certify the ruby and the emerald to wander
Disingenuous, impervious to cost through sapphire dusts in cosmic spectacle too
Wondrously created to be seen with contaminated eyes
As all arrive or nothing comes to mind and our own sweet surprise.