Whimsymaker, should you (like Pollock) spatter the universe
on the back of a swallowtail,
would I catch your wink
across the crowd?
Would I hold both my knees
in the understated privacy of a ratty,
small town concert hall—
minding the variation
on the theme—
letting the tension before the key shift
do its work?
Or would I beat my breasts at his torn,
feathered abdomen, digging around to get
the courage to end the life of a miracle suffering?
Will I only lament, accusing the Divine
of dropping us like a broken plaything—
leaving our trauma-busted heads and broken fingers to the winding down of our dirt selves?
Yet, there is a point in this green wood
where two lone streams converge—
where all the force of a paradox
rolls downhill to
make a happy chatter—
and I remember how faith breathes.
and it exhales.
It inhales, and it exhales.
Peace. Be still.