The fold of your hands in supplication is not worship
The brim of your cup in anticipation is not love
The grit on your sleeve worn out of green enchantment is not magic
The bulb of the root that sits on top of your mountain is not you
The shard of the same of the shard of the same is not semblance
The din that lays low and low and does not sound is not the hum
And yet it is, it is, it is.
This way of twisting things around, saying it is so and not-so
This chalk of contradiction that spells out this event and maybe that one too
The preparation, the denunciation, and the reconciliation
The grim, the peppy, the tight, the noose
It is the formation of clouds and the stringing together of stars
on an uncertain background of a hitherto unheard of rhythm that
plays out in sentence after phrase after ludicrous noun.
The sin of the holy ghost, the twist of verbs, the souring of
one epoch and then another. The hum stands in tepid brilliance
against the sharp, the known, the ornamented assembly passing
off as music. No, the ears know better, the eyes will not be
fooled again. The words spoken in a language not entirely from
home will argue clumsily. The awkward whisper is now all that
remains. The rain will pitter patter less stridently now.