We’ll say nothing of God, for he had
little enough to say during those years.
But Kaspar glimpsed things: temples, cities,
he wasn’t sure what. Only that it was
the beginning of a story, and he didn’t
know how it ended.
That cry we call
It might seem like ingratitude
to perplex a professor by seeing straight,
to believe that the sky around us
could be wider still.
But to wake
as a shape that stutters up a mountain
in the mist, when he wanted most to
tread down the clouds, is a hard
enough beginning, an obscure enough end.
[from MTFLG, McIndoe]
© The Estate of Bill Sewell 2004