Blithe fingers know the psalms of adoration;
Often they play them on the flesh of light.
No hearing necessary, nor is sight
Needed to draw the lineaments of pleasure.
In despair only is there desecration:
Evil in pursuit of pain, not pleasure.
So may we not regret our loss of sight:
Eight days God gave the miracle of light.
Touch remains the road to adoration,
However much we miss the gift of light.
Grace is a slate-flat sea, a tranquil
sight
After dense hills and fine-wrought pleasure:
Bleak and pure, too spare for desecration;
Rich as a thin dark line drawn with pleasure;
Intense as death, too immense for sight--
Even now, as love replaces light,
Loss of faith, not loss of adoration …
Mysteries are not revealed by
light:
Open to the darkness, not by sight
May they be known, but by love. And pain. And pleasure.
Each tide leaves on our shores its desecration:
Limp latex gloves, syringes, sheathes of pleasure.
Love cannot feel through knowing, nor does sight
Equal touch for singing, nor does light
Need burn eight days to kindle adoration.
