In silence the Fireball expanded in
A fecund miasma, not like brute
Zeus scattering his seed in rambunctious
Frenzy, but like the noiseless progress
Of dreams – lurid, efficient, working their
Way through boggling creations to a
Logic more startling than dreams. Nought after
Nought mustered behind that initial
“I Am”, gathering time in the ‘O’ of
Their gazes until naked, stubborn,
Clinging to its rock like a child to the
Breast, an active chemical started
Laughing and dying. Suddenly sound was
At home, screeching with the wind from a
Razor-backed scarp, or grunting in the springs
Of a valley bottom, accepted
Into meaning by the coils of the ear.
And silence, also, inveigled the
Creatures, pulling them short with a stunning
Absence as they deciphered whispers
Which had not been whispered. For silence is
The language of God. This agony
Of molecules, this litter of ice-bound
Debris, receives the Word like a tone
Of voice unexpectedly present in
The galactic mumble. What it means
Bamboozles the senses, although like a
Novice copying the Lives of Saints –
Lonely at his work, his teeth aching – one
Can risk in a margin: “The sun is
Shining; it is quiet; how good is God.”
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© March 1983