hang all your stars on the tree of heaven,
pierce through to the multiple core of time,
percale that folds in the buckles of fire.
prime suspect hidden in numbers,
in patterns and folds so vast,
rages close to galactic prime.
pray not for release – it’s here,
pray not to be saved – you are,
pray not for the mystery enduring – it is.
all things taken together,
added and named in multiple lines,
would not be a tenth of beginning,
would not even yet hint
at a tenth of the Fearful Divine.
some number commanding,
some letter suggesting,
some formula pattern of stars in their turning,
some way to the center,
the center remains.
whistle a benign tune and all tunes come flocking,
whistle for the one forgotten
all strangers will knock,
and you will be the more than all,
the less than some, the less than all,
you will last as the beaches of heaven,
as the stone in the shoe,
as the key in the door.