All we know is rays of light
And sounds that quiver in the night.

This drop of sea, it sings to me,
And tinkles with infinity.

The light from which commotion streams
Cannot be reached by road or dreams.

​All of these books,
Some of them are sand
That runs into the sea
The sea swallows them up

All of the seagulls that come to us
That fly above the lonely sand
That always stay outside us,

Something shakes within me,
A thin paper tapping
A thin wind whistles

It brings to light
From a hidden cave
A recalcitrant face.

​Your eye is as big as a lunar parasol.
Well, that belongs to the world of sand.
I don’t really believe it.
It’s just too—well, shall I say it?—grand.

But the holy mushroom spread across the vast expanse
Of every eye of time and space
And it crawled under my skin
And broke the veins of movement and place.

And that is the least of the least of the praise
Of the good harmony that reverberates
From the undulating light
Spinning ever outward from an infinitude of spinning plates.

​When my eye, which is open and rational,
Will be one with the hidden mystic
(When the realist joins the pietistic),

From their scope and parts
Songs will blossom, power will flow,
Beauty will grow, we will know more than we know.

​The story of Creation
And the mutterings of Stephen Hawking
Have been seen in Hyde Park talking.

Millions of years passed
Until man came to his senses
And this is where family commences.

So that man clings to woman
More than to his father and mother,
And brings into his circle the Other.

The man had slept 
For a million years
Until he saw that she wept with his tears.

Even when they were unclothed,
He knew, this time, that she is bone of his bone
And he cannot own and cannot disown.

Something deep is in our soul
Violated when we violate that trust
Until our flesh and bones are caked in rust.

​How foolish people are
Who do not care 
About the Northern Star

And the laws of its celestial whirl
Like a boy’s hair in its capacious whorl.

How great are the deeds
Of God
In the mitochondria of reeds.

Their vision blurs, their hearing lapses.
And the throne on which they sit collapses.

In place of these raptured ecstatics
Arrive the neutered
Atheistic fanatics

Who wrong this world with their pursuit
Of its permitted fruit.

But those who rightly feed the body
Who guide the stream
That roars to fill the wadi

Who gaze upon the quantum and the quark
Upon the earthworm and the orc,

Because they gaze upon the soul
Of all
They bring the word of God into the bowl

God has touched the army of their hearts
So they restore the ruins and pathways with their arts.

Sometimes pure faith
Cannot find its foundation
In the soil of the soul
And its rigmarole

That lies baked in the flesh
In the lines of imagination,
In illusion and sight,
Deception and night,

As though we are fed
By the mind’s meditation
While the limbs remain
Unredeemed and profane.

The body and soul
Spit vituperation,
Destroy and war
In hair-clutching furor.

At that time, release
Beyond recrimination
Is faith that contains
Rivers and lanes,

Whose sky roads receive
Purification,
Whose soil, whose roots,
Whose crawling shoots,

Whose visions and yearning,
Whose hot imagination
Rise, though blind,
To brightness of mind,

A blazing white fire,
A swift cerebration,
A thought beyond thought
Of knowledge untaught.

In slavery, faith
Is the reverberation
Of God and deed,
Of wordless creed.