Some days, even the Lord of Hosts could do
No better, some say, than dictate Leviticus
To priestly scribes. It seems not every divine
Utterance produces prophecies or psalms.
So who is a mere compositor fond of a swim
To try to be more consistent with his praise?
By afternoon the storms came out to play.
That meant the swimmer should not today.
In one corner of a small house he waited
As form constants and Turing patterns lit
A sky filled with rain and the random firing
Of internal background noise, internal
To the brain of God. Ah, see? As it strikes
And candles a conifer high on one ridge
Above the fluttering waves of the lake, it hits
You, too, you’ve thought more than once
Of the mind of God, but never of God’s
Brain. Why not? The swimmer bereft of safe
Swimming this hour will let you answer that
For yourself in your own brain. This is, after
All, his Leviticus, or perhaps his Numbers,
Obsessed with counting and observing
Cultic practices of a small tribe of chosen
Phrases. If you complain we make no sense
In whatever damnable world you inhabit,
We’re happy to proclaim you a heretic. See?
This is the primary feature of a system
Of belief: an activator and an inhibitor
Fighting against each other. Noise plays
A pivotal role. The thunder performs its part.
The higher brain becomes more excited.
There is at least, among the priestly writers,
A technology to deal with original impurity.
There is at least, among the neurons, wiring
That inhibits hallucinatory patterns. There is
At least, on an afternoon of storms and no
Swimming, an invisible but dangerous force,
The holiness its Leviticus ascribes to lakes.
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