Which privation gives
best pleasure; there's
sacrament, a ripened
grape hung to
fail all measures
of material: it's
attention that is
the highest form
of prayer. After
peeling a skin in
the pew sharpened
surfaces of the prie-dieu;
to present you
I think about the frequency of contact, and the shiver that comes
at the base of my neck. In all its sweetness. Certainly nice,
my shirt on the clothesline, I'm in it now and You've held me.
Beauty secretes certainty, a capacity tried each day
by leaving the house. But where else to find it. I mean, good
clouds that eclipse sweet to awe. I am in the blue sweater,
watching them cluster, clouds more solid than I ever could be.
I never liked a clear day, unfair brightness not
sometimes askew to shadow. My shiver. Our soft
atmosphere alone is not tender; clouds drop water with
no life to punish and a gust will
move them; whereby angels live there.
Angels have been seen here, by people related to me. You relate
so constantly it's only I who approach cyclically, with caution.
Wearing pants and shoes, in which You've held me.
Damn the storms when clouds punish for no crime. Earlier I lied
and it was not for You, who know the Absence of Good. Evil as
inaction of any graceful thing. And angels, unconscious in so many safe
clouds. At night, this evening, our garden holds the privation of light
for its sleep. Conditions in which certainty can leave.
I know weightfulness; the far-flung sentiment of reality.
Hereby I know You, shyly, as I walk to the shed. Through a
thick dark abscessed around what's familiar.
As rain and ether soak things, You will always
be here. And I will both love and be always alone.