Enwrapped in Night's cloakwe lit a fire in her bosom.
The damp wood hissed at her brood
as tongues of fire leapt and singed
our variant strands into a cord.
Starlight lanced her cloak
and we laughed at the impaled presence.
Bored with impotent wraiths, we turned
to theodicy, discussing
God and suffering over tea.
In that star-pinned cloak,
we thought the shepherd's star was sought.
We who hadn't writhed on crosses
nor ever need to pray for bread, resolved to unveil
that which God died to know.
Beneath night's tattered cloak we rapped
on everynothing.
If I'm lenient with myself
I could say the time was redeemed
when eyelids shut out dark,
committing our muted beings to the knowing Still.
(The Sea is Never Full. Singapore: EPB Publishers, 1994)
