He who has become and is
forever coming—
site and map and motive,
arena, whelm and wind, apse and
undercroft, silence and song,
rinse and wring, thumb of flame
in a darkened cave.
He who always escapes dimension.
I speculate, wishing it to be faith:
Is He that fur collar against my cold
cheek? Scarlatti on the car radio?
A peony unbuttoning her frilly blouse
for my pleasure?
Tentative, I sketch a loose shape
in the air. But in a squander of
bright wind He escapes.