What is There

The mist collects to droplets on the leaves,

slight inches from my eye.  I stare.

I do not see the force and law that forms

the silver globe.  I do not see what’s there,

for spinning wild is how the atoms mean

the world.  I stare.   Simple, still, and silent

balls, the water drops just make for me

the maelstrom into symbols.  And I stare.

All men by nature want to know for sure

and poetry is knowing what is there.

The poem is the end of artifice, I’m sure.

And then suspicion that this thought itself

will wisp into some final sucking fire,

this thought that thought is simultaneous

and simultaneous is how to think.

When I affirm that God is one in essence,

essence still, and silent and indeed so simple,

and yet hypostases three are he and he and he,

the creeds seem end of artifice for me.

I stare, and think too much.  Yet grass in blades

is choosing how to shape the tuft of blooms,

yet bees are hyperlinking blooms in air,

yet atmospheres are swirling over continents,

yet continents are spinning, wild, the world

into the artificial silver globe among the drops

He stares.  He stares, He finds His thoughts take shapes

as artificial lines. Yet good.  Yet very good.

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