How do you spell
the sound you make
when you have an orgasm?
Now you see the difficulty of poetry.
Take a scale and calibrate it
to exacting standards, and tell me
which weighs more: Mozart’s requiem
or your feelings when your mother died?
Now you see the problem with art.
Tell me: what did God mean
in creating the sea?
You see, don’t you,
the temptation of prayer,
and its pure and holy uselessness?
People say, “Father, Son and Holy Ghost”
as if that explains something.
The Spirit said to me:
“Understanding is a pair of sunglasses.”
What then can we do,
but pray without ceasing,
and write poetry until our eyes close?
What can we do but lay down our shovels
and come home?
What can we do but touch
the children we love as if for the first time,
and lay our hands and eyes tenderly,
like newborns, upon this world,
until all that we know of the world
disappears into the world,
and God escapes our imagining,
until we are raised from the tomb of certainty
into the glorious rainbow light of awe?