The Tide, Part VI

This same spiritual figure we had
seen descending space’s chamber we
watched attend to some task that
seemed to entail another form of
judgement, against what creatures we
couldn’t see—we each were sure that
only ourselves were the bearers of
selfness, that is that we were alone—
such despair made our torment
longer, yet what the angel did made
logic of the successive hours
throughout our sentence, from
Saturn’s spiralling portal our captor
now carried the universal numbers,
including the numbers of the clock,
that was secret to the other angels
save through the steady meditation
on the scriptures, a kind of seance
with the cursed targets of Christ’s
atoning sacrifice. We were soothed
immensely by the knowledge of our
mortality, and for the unknown aliens
attaining time as though a canopy
beneath which they now duly move
(and with such safely hidden purpose
one’s sudden anxiousness to
understand could be one’s own mud
thatch, so far from understanding
would their ill conceptions be), utter
silence was their unconverted
adolescent’s celebration—at this time
such expectations of their roles in
space as stewards, overseers and
solemn priests raced back against the
now inevitable introduction to the
wider cosmos and its inhabitants—
our fallen angels were the victors in a
Hegelian sense, that is victors in a
war against two opposing problems—
God and nothing.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio

$1.00

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