one for Cheris, even tho I'll probably never see her again (p.)

Watch the sky tear its face off 
with neither sorrow nor exaltation, 
god of empty prayers devoted to nothingness. 
What lives are suffered with glory 
in the rather stale, no: neutral reaches 
and moments of decay & concomitant 
dissolution toward rebirth? 
Where nothing enjoys proof of itself, 
all is merely a series of first bewildered moments; 
as nomads live, survive from year-to-year 
or flowers lift with infantile discovery 
towards that rather strange battery, where 
even Vishnu's fingers would tremble, where 
accident and fate are so close to identical, 
the eye & the hand are abnormally shy to gesture; 
where my dumb words and your angry introversion 
no longer need to compensate and recapitulate 
what the other cannot, should not, will not, 
claim--nor hope--what the gods furthest 
 within 
our ancestry would be too wise to pretend otherwise 
to circumnavigate: Eyeless Creatures without voices 
or dignified greeting of any sort, parentless children 
with less chance every year at Adulthood, shadows 
moving thru other shadows, some 
on the keen gravity of light, selah. 





**** 

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