All cubits avalanche into fractals.
There is no true measurement
to mark off the gleaming distance
between touch and the absence
that veils the golden air of you.
Censers on tripods have been lit
inside the shadow-moving realm.
Superstitions make the night go
into rituals and into secret writing.
Inside the bimah, beneath its art,
a scroll of prophet dreams unfurls,
gilt handles of acacia-wood moist
from priestly perspiration. Desiring,
a yearning to know an interlocutor
capable of reconciling bone to time.
To speak your name is impermissible.
Indirection is the mode of the sanctum --
by which gate today shall I enter mazily
and tread quietly past alcove chambers?
It is good a table is made holy with wine.
I'll drink for vision. Inhale fragrant oils.
There! Set near a brooding niche,
a menorah's candles glow with fire --
seven times seven dreams waxing.
While unseen musicians play things
to complement all hushed offerings.
Finally before the platform of old days,
I see a parokhet curtain's folds beyond.
An ineffable fabric that hides the truth,
where one might lose one's utter senses
or fall rapturously deeper into distances.
This is not about a god.
Copyright 2011 -- Tim Buck