The object is a mighty wood, full of sound and light,
It might be moving Birnam, making life complete.
At the very least, the image caught within our sight
Is possible, sees mere dreams retreat.
A busy day for the Flight of God
And all who comprise his smoking train —
Making off for icy pastures, wearing wool that smells
Of rain; turn the pages ever over, while the jet
Refuels in Spain — tearing paper into pieces,
Scattered ashes on a plane…
Windswept, bony, lonely country —
See the earth stretch out its hand.
The object of all thought we class most highly,
So Rome regards the Gift of Constantine,
That object must, perforce, be possible,
Even if we know it site unseen.
Before the Restoration one could hail to St. Cyril
And apostles, far from the arm of Rome;
Simoniacal Popes so liberal at the altar
Providing they cracked the whip at home.
They speak in awe, mid the wondrous wood
The ontological argument,
Would that it move as our ideas of good,
So formed and heaven sent.
Lunch with New York stockbrokers. Speech at Salt Lake City.
Kiss the tarmac in Madrid. Extol the place of pity.
Address the Womans’ Guild at four, nibbles after (what a bore!)
Please make sure / to hold the door / and keep the motor running…
Inquisition time tonite but script approval makes it right /
A blue face swivels in the light of a thousand
Blue blind eyes
The wood can’t move? Lead me to its shore!
That moral dimension the psyche suits
Remains, for evermore.
So, if you’ve topped yourself
Because your God is off somewhere,
Quietly opening his wrists,
My God still could be around,
Therefore he exists.
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