Neither is it beyond the sea,
for it is too shallow.
Neither is it in Heaven, where thrones carouse
the feet of God, oh order of angels awaiting.
Neither is it the life you are given, born into, the life
you neither earn nor deserve.
Neither is it the bladder of muscle once you called
the heart. Fuller than most,
she’s emptied now, erupted. Neither is it the fume
of volcanic simile, but see here:
the lava leaps hotly like a hundred suns, dancing.
It is not the cause of a Christian
to pray as the pagans pray, your hands black as a secret
with unknowing ease. It is not in your hands
at all. It is nothing you have ever loved, or said
you loved. Neither Adam nor apple,
nor anyone’s business but Christ’s. It is not the city of sleep,
insensibly thrumming its slumber.
Suffering’s only cure is ignorance.
It is no longer in you to be ignorant.
It is not the gate to the lamb shack, so far
away, so damn divine. It is not the grief incurred
lingering within an absent man’s shade. Too long
have you waited. Still,
he is not here. Oh my soul,
the price of life is death.