Typically cryptic, God said three weasels

slipping electric over the rocks

one current conducting them up the tree

by the river in the woods in the country

into which I walked

away and away and away;

and a moon-blued, cloud-strewn night sky

like an x-ray

with here a mass and there a mass

and everywhere a mass;

and to the tune of a two-year-old

storm of atoms

elliptically, electrically alive—

I will love you in the summertime, Daddy.

I will love you...in the summertime.

Once in the west I lay down dying

to see something other than the dying stars

so singularly clear, so unassailably there,

they made me reach for something other.

I said I will not bow down again

to the numinous ruins.

I said I will not violate my silence with prayer.

I said Lord, Lord

in the speechless way of things

that bear years, and hard weather, and witness.