What is God and how can we name him?
The question is not so formed
but floats about the gathering,
a field of notes and semi-attentive heads.

The weight of the matter lies
tightly through the rows,
dozens of singly-shaded specks
growing larger in glancing down.

What we can’t know, and what we do.
One by one the shades rise and turn
and slice out of vision on to other things
that demand no certain uncertainty.

Friday night lights and springtime beers
frolic beyond the portal and, somehow
they’ve been snared to
hear and so learn what.

What will leave and what will live?
Each grain knows alone itself,
cannot know the other or itself
until the reaping and then.

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