Mist on leaves collects to drops which pose to fall.
But spinning wild is what the atoms mean, mere inches from my eye.
I stare. I do not see the there.
I stare. I do not see the force and law that forms the silver globe
that symbolizes…what? Hygeine? My death in Christ
and resurrection whole? The summer crops? A swimming pool?
All men by nature want to know
and poetry is knowing what is there.
The sonnet is the end of artifice.
And then suspicion that this thought
will wisp into the final sucking fire.
This thought that thought is simultaneities
and simultaneities are hardly contradiction.
When I affirm that God is one in essence,
essence still, yet hypostases three
I shiver to my fungal toes
yet grass is choosing how to shape the tuft
yet atmospheres are swinging over continents
yet bees are hyperlinking blooms.
I curl, a fetus, on the yet.