God's fingers fan out, dangle and
freeze! as icicles, as nice as seconds
between sleep and something still
deeper, steeped until the slow caves of thought
submerge in ice.
Do not be afraid, be a child instead and
reach! for substance, for fear embodied boldly
in a point made sharply still
spreading, the miracle of earth's blood bolted
to a roof.
Such miracles do distend, do beg, portend
plenty! for when they fall, the shatter is a cool
and violent glimpse of love;
in the pieces rest a thousand pierced reflections
melting, minders of the miracle remaining —
of the hanging that was done!