The place we rip open again and again
that always heals—that’s God.
We are all sharp-edged from our need
to know; He is spread out, serene.
Even the pure and blessed libations
He takes into His world in just
one way: by staying motionless,
never controlling the way things turn out.
Only the dead drink
from that spring that we can hear,
when the god signals to them, silently.
Just the noise of it reaches us.
And the lamb begs for its bell
out of its quieter instinct.
