The Twist

We find the conscience by

electric light, with

windows open to the winter.

In the crack of knuckles

you might have heard—

God, who jackknifes sideways

in the belly.

Sh’ma, Yisrael:

There is the sound

of scratching pens,

of rolling wheels,

of fellow-travelers in the night.

Though many worlds seem formed in fear,

all things were made for praising.

And time is not vicious,

O my saint of the pear trees,

not vicious but violent,

like a dark-haired lady.

Time bears away all

the objects and marks of love

with blood in her teeth,

bearing her gods in her womb.