“Tragedy is the privilege of mortality. In eternity, you limit yourself for the fun of it.” –Jack Parsons
Are the skeptics any less close to God
Than cats or country girls? They recognize,
In the smallest things, themselves, not knowing
They are the long and tall, the all of it.
Lost in the sky, they make their homes in holes
And reach into the aperture pockets
To find the darkest stones embed with light:
The endlessness of love, and of longing.
They hold the dust the Word has captured
In the warm and moist surrender terror,
Tossed between the fractal and the whole,
The infinite reflection sent back in,
The truth in opposition. The seeker
Sees her own eyes instead of what is sought,
Tries to match the scent to her panting soul,
Love pouring out reformings now outgrown.
