We are not doing well without God,
But there is no passing the angels
With flaming swords at the gates,
And a fish flitting by
Knocks from Gilgamesh’s hand
The Pearl of Immortality,
And as it sinks into the depths
He must swim to the surface
And gulp air into his burning lungs.

The eagle with his hooked beak
Has torn asunder our mother, the hare,
And we tumble from her womb,
Blind and shivering.
Though tiny and weak
We make the armies quake,
The men from Lacedemon of many ravines,
From Messe abounding in doves,
From Ithaca and mount Neriton
With its quivering leaves,
And Agamemnon with wide eyes
Remembers Iphigenia
Spurting blood
On the altar stone
At Aulis.

From the west clouds roll in,
Like rusted smoke,
Against a maroon earth,
And ox-blood pillars,
Glowing and throbbing,
Hold up the lintel,
Which is our lost son,
And below is the portal,
Beckoning, blacker than black,
Inviting, almost promising
That we will speak with our son
And hold him until he cries out:
What year is this?
And listen: the music,
My composition, he says,
But we hear light being
Refracted in crystal
And he talks of a moon
Synchronized with Jupiter
That appears once in a century
For a single day
Then is occulted
But on that day
It rains diamonds,
And meanwhile we wait
Before the portal,
Wait and weep.

August 23rd, 2007