I see God, she said, her voice
a piccolo piping in the boundless dark
a fragile strand in freezing night air.
He has a billion million shining eyes,
soft bright wispy hair and he crawls
down to guard us when the sun
has gone to rest. Like the multitude
who have witnessed the Madonna
in the clouds, I want to see
yet wants have dulled perception,
too many stolen glances at eclipses
and other forbidden things.
The longing of our most desperate
hours that trickle days into lifetimes
of poring over star charts
calculating, contriving to discern
spurious solutions and nothing
more than a million billion cold
lifeless stars shining for no one
save the child who sees the face of God.
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