Trying to divine
Something sacred, what the long line
Played out and reeled in
Delivers silvery, wet and flopping
Ungodlike
But alive on a crescent of beach.
Of course they disguise themselves—
Fish with wings, weathervanes,
High-flying hawks—
Those “purely spiritual and
Splendid beings”
(This from an Islamic tract)
Who row and spin in their interceding,
The sum a practical account:
Crops grow,
Tumors fade, children
Remain whole, the thread doesn’t break.
Sublime, sublime
The evidence of angels.
For them, the bamboo
Unfurls its shade, long poles that
Sway and clack
Like socketed pinions in the shimmering air.
Otherwise—
Murmurs in the crown,
A sudden cooling like the advent of rain.