There are some
that emerge into eternity as a god rises
from the sleeping sea, ethereality's memory hanging
and dripping, as eyes of storms and pristine mouths.
This god enters beauty quietly and with ache.
He has hands that never touch, but they turn.
And he bends over the curve of earth
as if he knew her before she became.
You ask me why
it is that I cannot sleep, why I am
standing here restless, hungry, disbelieving, shorn.
I say I am listening to a god singing in the yard.