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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