I wrote this poem a while ago. I offer it here as a response to my friend Tripp’s meditation.


‘The universe has been regarded by the devout as, in a sense, the creation
of the night thoughts of the Deity,’ Loren Eiseley

For all my protests, all my sense of time
and place, I must not want to find the center,

the ancient home – no lasting city suits
me now and ever though I’ll take some sleepless

temporary space in which to hear
the Word, certain and gratuitous, enjoying

all these strange hours in a twilit passage.

Yet, while working in the waning night
high waves wash over the room, eroding it

like some Atlantic shore in a hurricane –
it becomes an estuary filling beneath

the Milky Way, reeling as the planet spins
and whips about a well of buckled space-time;

then I realize all at once, I’m always home.

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