Who knows? you'll shrug, gesturing—
the extent to which those
stiff and still wan yellow
shafts of early light—
which seem to channel forever
down from the creased mouths
and distended
cheeks of antediluvian clouds,
without ever seeking ground—
bestow anything?
or were, for that matter—
themselves bestowed in the first place?
But who? she'll answer—if ever last
left standing here,
alone on this hot screaming rock and
in the face of annihilation,
would dare remain mired
in the valley
of his or her own stubborn perspicacity
and still insist on penning and pinning
his own clever lyrics to
that vast soundless music
out the window there—
which has sustained not only your mother,
but her mother,
and her mothers' mother,
and her mother's mother's mother too,
and so-on, and so-on, and so-
and so, on—
But—What is god, mom!
other than
our ultimate
concern in that moment?
Exactly!—what God is,
young man,
IS your ultimate concern,
every second.
