Go then into the spare light of dawn,
into the sparkling rime, from the long dream of yes and no, stand still as the falcon passes close behind and then in a rush of feathers embraces the crooked pole and its power line;

go, believing in some destination, onto the shore where destination founders, where the smell
of oil like the excrement of an army of great machines stifles breath, and all that is left

is the desire that powered your dreams.

Go from the confusion of night, the grand opera of love and its pitiful leavings, from the pale scream that announces entrance and exit, lungs expanding

into the long legato of the last breath,

and from there into the loss which is your heritage, through the great insect chorus
of hosanna into the house of your inheritance. Brew a cup of tea, take it to the sunniest room, and when God appears, demand an explanation.