They have a direct line to God, you laughed,
pointing at the literal human symbol
set up as a joke to distract
from the deep blue and distant sun
as if longing had only to do with separation
from what is closer to us than ourselves
and clearer than that water like crystal
while an old visionary with glasses
who was killed for loving
(the most subversive of revolutions)
swims up before an other eye to tell
strange stories of walruses and caterpillars
and the impossible achievements of children
who have not yet learnt our most simple lie:

that we somehow need symbols to talk with God,
as if there would be more than pure silence
and the occasional deep breath on the other end,
while the signal fire of the white rocks
and salt-pool baths blaze on
and el mar azul sings the thousand temporary
diamonds of each day, an intricate dance
to a tune about no heaven or hell
and the clarion call of all,
not heard, not felt, but lived,
for what words would you want to hear,
but this, this itself, no more.

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