We pantomime our sumptuous dirge

That has never known a chord without novas

Or a Nocturne of phrase

Charmed into glissandos

gilded as galaxies

of gossamer, awestruck Thought...

And now

These Arias are all of Us -

Phosphorus Dirth-worms

In dead white apples

In a Cave.

Our elusive orchestra

Polished by ambient clay

To gleam forsaken

and redeemed

Has often curved the flat space

Between The Mystery

And No Church -



Listen

And the melodies

Decipher

The delicate heresies of Love

That you make

With your bare hands

And our separate Hells'

Are but one Heaven

The Devil has to See

To Believe.