We parse the divine. Why not? We parse
Sentences, and those too we made to remake us.
Those, too, now escape and define us. Nights,
I sometimes haul out on my balcony like an old seal,
A scarred and reproductively irrelevant seal
Not far from the many similar shadows ashore,
Hauled out on a peripheral rock. I watch the edges
Of the general bob, quieter at these hours but
Nonetheless in motion, aware and unaware.
The calm night is divine. The night is the divine,
The devas, the deevs, the devils we’ve made
Of dark and the stars. It descends like a gown,
More lovely, I suspect, than whatever corpse
It dresses. Corpus. I am an animal. I am many animals.
But I am only one or a few awarenesses at a time,
While also host to invading hosts of ghosts, gods,
And sentence structures. Parse and parcels,
Among my thoughts, I note the lesser lights
Come from beneath that dim the distant sights.
Still over me, the night descends, of everything,
Of everything, and I can almost touch the hem.
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