Listen. Even this
is a distraction—
is a distraction—
just words,
like hailstones disturbing the surface
It won't be be until
every sound finally stops
of the ocean.
It won't be be until
every sound finally stops
that you'll finally be able
to hear the song of grace—
the source of those swelling
and melancholy waves—
that faintest music
that faintest music
of a planet slowly turning,
its only lyric transmitted
as an undulation
its only lyric transmitted
as an undulation
of paralyzing insight—
an impassable question:
what is the real shape
of your face?
what is the real shape
of your face?
