in the beginning was a sheath of light:
a nascent rainbow, at the cusp of bowing—
then came the curdling cries of severed worlds,
a grimace, and a weeping willow mildly

but more came later: the crass creeping up of
saints, careful sinners, through the
wails and the wallow and the wild—
until with beaten brows and no more love
to spare, your wisdom bloomed a sorry flower—

then i caught you up in gasp and fevered grip,
clutching to the
mire as you shook, but wondering ever on in prayer:
what carries on from here
that wondering will has power no more?