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