30 (bleavenly hiss)



Me alone, dear God, in these hills of flesh, making

nothing of something, something of nothing.

Do you hear my prayers?  Or here, do I pray for

nothing for nothing, something for something?

Are there no gifts with heaven's broken promise?

Nothing to something, something to nothing.

A ribbon in wind, this motherless aching.  

Nothing no something no something no nothing.  

I am tidal need, and break-water spray.

Know something, nothing: a know-nothing something.

A minute abyss of bleavenly hiss.  

Some know know-nothing.  No, some no knowing.


We dear know God, no Godless know nots.

We dear, no God, know Godless, know naught. 

 


originally published  in The Brooklyn Rail