These days revelation comes slow
seeming less to strike
and more to grow.
The temple curtain is no longer ripped
from top to floor
but unravels and frays
decays a little more
with the accelerating days.
And God
speaks less in strident tone
retreating to the substrate,
perhaps preferring time alone
with the odd centenarian whisper
or low groan,
hiding herself again
from the cooling passion of my hunt;
my meanings were like missile attacks;
her answers, now less storied,
are delegated,
spoken in a pattern of crazed luciferous cracks
revealing just the uncreated glow,
an underground lighthouse
on the wrecking rock
to which the winds of her breath blow.
From my collection My Mother is an Old Elephant available on Amazon here.