In the midst of the word he was trying to say,
In the midst of his laughter and glee,
He had softly and suddenly vanished away-----
For the Snark was a Boojum, you see.
---------Lewis Carroll, The Hunting of the Snark, Fit the Eighth.
Silence inspires song uxuriously.
Our eyes, buttonholes of light.
pregnant and virginal,
over the city.
with its descent,
Awash and aglow,
we stroll past
and feuilleton hawkers.
hoary and venerable,
vestments of a ministry
to errant tongue and truant curl
of empty heads,
rise from neon banality
by pale hands
Two children run in terror as air shakes their faces' upon dark waters.
A dozen pink scarves disguised as clouds ignored by serious people at dusk.
Listen as mother sings a lullaby to her babe of Angels swallowing doves in clouds.
Hunger shivers from a thousand dirty cupboards.
The cross drags a straight line over every heart.
There is no button to fasten this point.
Theology, rarefied dramaturgy