A Midnight Protestantism

With the black of night making a
mirror of the back window as
weighted as a pipe organ clogged
with the matted inevitable soot
of past centuries, I type and
the public radio station,
volume low, plays choral pieces
which no person, nor composer
can stop and listen to enter into,
because there is no final entering
with a confirmation declaring a
‘look, I am finally here; look at how
the magnificence shines‘,
because it is only the unfolding
of elliptical cynosures panning
through blank molecular spaces
of the notes and words of cyclic
music where there is blown open
the closed hidden openness and
stopping to do anything won’t
bring it to anywhere other than as
it is being here, alive, as with you
and I breathing, speaking, reading
in and out with the multi nothingness
on both sides of the outside and inside
which, in our best, will be sufficiently
enough until resting in the unknown.