Oh God by the thousands names
and one only finger pointed back at Yourself
You, round, circular,
a vertical vertebra and a blade
without sentiment or doubt
but the transgressing statement
that curves at the sole
uprooting kingdoms and laws
and dissolving the margins
past which, is wine the grout mid You and us,

are the words meant for You no more weak
than the strength of mortar,
the un-breaking bending
of the bamboo cane,
the iron sword that twists a people,

or the light that penetrates the twilight and shrivels it before exploding from within?

You with Your skill of disguise Are balmier, slyer
and far more ferocious
than all of the above
and yet You do not come but
as a gust of wind,
a sigh breathing in efflorescence
the memory of a bell that toll
for resurrection

a game of card
played as a solitaire
or the other way around.

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