God

If I beat against the glass with a bony fist
I'm sorry; the nothing that men call all
Was a motionless mass of corruption
Eternally changing, not something written in books,

So when the storm came down in glassy sheets,
I was all bone, and I struck the ground and screamed
At the stags taking cover, a snowy-blur
In the darkness and streaking light:

The nothing huddled like a heap in the corner
Of a dusty attic, and the deep, hungry flames
Waiting to consume prefigure my own astonishment

At the cracking, crystal sky,
And the need for a consuming warmth
That only the cold fragrance answers.