He said, “God is the light of day.”
Then what is the dark of night?
He said God is:
the bright white wine
and the inky red that stains
the enormous void we bear
and the thing we bear it in
all we do not know
and how we know it. Tell him
my mind flutters and flits
like a very plain butterfly
over a flaming field in mid-summer
that deadens the soul.
And there is no chance of rain
and the sun is set to remain
remote for years without dying
and nothing will change
not direction nor this weak, weakening
effort to alight in shaded
safety.
Tell him this then,
approximately where I can be found:
in a field aflame in dead
summer, unable to land.
-J. O'Brien
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