a psalm

tell me, You,

with your hills and valleys

your deserts and difficult streams

what music is there

in these maddening machines

these serpentine silences

tell me, Secret i'm not

privy to, slogging through

my ventricles, what art

is in this artifice ? what

is the reason for facing

everything but your Face

i wait not patiently as-

well. i wait 

and in return i return 

and turn

and twist

and far off is a sea

where You spoke

and i wish to dream 

myself there

where

where 

Where

i sit i cry out i open

quiet quiets me

and i wait 

still