Great creator
		blacken the night
	show me your fertility
in fire, your romance

in stones, and solitude:
in satiable thirst,
words and weather with their disturbing
connections
	a babies cry from silk,
		hearing the whistle
of a phantom
train, her head lowered in sleep.

The morning dance of the revelers
signals a willed montage,
unheard songs, and impossible ways.
Let me become through history

alive, not an idolater
with objections.

It’s what we make
of their testimony the lies.