Quis ut Deus?


O Michael rope the souls and score
according to the rules,
those which you wear as fierce as rain
against the stone. It's cruel
to count the devil out, it's cruel
to keep our God in pain;
so willingly he'd rest if we'd
agree to stop. Go lay
with him beneath our whirring rain.

They find it bold among the ruins, raised
above the fields of granite. There's no law
to say to bow or kill or study it.
They wonder what it's reaching for, they place
their ears on cracking chest, imagine breath;
O Lord we trespass in the orchard! Take
us out to rivers cold and still and we'll
return the fire that we stole. The ash
we'll sow between the stones so doubts don't grow.

Like so the spindle's thread
is spun again: say God once more.

Our fears do not stay dead.



Bob Towey