Piyyut

By Michael Sandler

A dam of ignorance, deflecting. A brain-gray

Baffle between me and just one assuring truth,

Clouding, confounding. They ply easy faith,

Doubt-free Thomases, those Billy Graham

Evangelicals, then I look up and nurse

Forebodings of form vying with nothingness.

God I envy them—as I do the godless

Harping their song to a vacant universe.

 

I once ignored the gray. I bought in. I’d

Joke about oddball sects: Jews for Jesus,

Karaites, Essenes, would christen them meshugas.

Lord, you’d think voices had come to me at night.

Maybe a failure to give voice, but I think

Not: like old stars, the old proofs expand; then shrink.

 

Our towers once approached that heaven, ladders

Propped to a cloud. Now they tell us genesis

Questions span 14 billion light-years as

Random flickers and dark and anti-matter—

Space enough for a mere god not to be

Two places at once. We see a god cannot be

Unless with both emitter and viewer of light,

Verging on fount and finis of that light.

 

Where are apt words to apprehend it, a-

crostics to order it? Logos is word

Yoked to semblance of order till it spurs

Zealot psalm to barbaric phenomena—

Arresting the inward probe into long-implied

Alephs aswirl, detachments from Adonai.

___

Michael Sandler has other recent work appearing in Moment Magazine, Ducts, Off the Coast, The Puritan, Fourteen Hills, Peregrine, Diverse Voices Quarterly, California Quarterly, and NaturalBridge.


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