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 also donate some of your hard-earned dollars down below—that’s money to me, for free!


Gabriel Muoio


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