Surely nothing is shining now, Lack-God
of the disembodied, of the always hungry.
The rain is at my doorstep. I’m as empty as November.
The girl beside me is a lion, fearfully full of light.
She’s been howling since the darkness came
nearly five centuries ago. After Descartes
our radiance became a storm cloud,
we built landscapes with no temples,
lions turned into housecats, and the girl
was more symbol than flesh.
Outside my window, the wind switches identities
and becomes the absence of wind.
The orphic ear is cocked to listen.
Even beautiful music must be questioned
lest it’s only the sheen of misinformation.
Maybe even the angels are lying.
I carry a polyurethane cross
to the unbreakable center.
If we want resurrection we will have
to employ an Ecuadorian fungus.
Only nature can do the dirty work
in the spirit’s landfill.
Transmutation doesn’t happen overnight.
The world is still a hole in the Lack-God’s belly.
I’m still as empty as the trees.