We’re here to gather evidence, to find The DNA—or at least to lift the finger- prints of Deity. A treasure hunt With clues craftily concealed, but there Nevertheless. If clouds drifting dreamily Across the moon’s congested face won’t do, Or waves that threaten passion in the Higher sense, beyond a Category Five, make you shrug, consider numbers, Counting to infinity. Boot up Your Apple, and see how many zeroes it Can prophesy. Click a remote: note How mice, unwired, can still point To sites unmentioned in the manual. Divide three into ten, and claim eternity.
“It did what I wanted it to do,” said my sister of the carefully composed little book of old family photographs she’d arranged with sheer vellum slips between the pages, “so they could see through to the old faces, maybe circle them, write things, mostly gather round close and remember because the book is small.” Their knees would almost have to touch.
Philosophers have measur’d mountains, Fathom’d the depths of seas, of states, and kings, Walk’d with a staffe to heav’n, and traced fountains: But there are two vast, spacious things, The which to measure it doth more behove: Yet few there are that sound them; Sinne and Love.
Who would know Sinne, let him repair Unto Mount Olivet; there shall he see A man so wrung with pains, that all his hair, His skinne, his garments bloudie be. Sinne is that presse and vice, which forceth pain To hunt his cruell food through ev’ry vein.
Who knows not Love, let him assay And taste that juice, which on the crosse a pike Did set again abroach; then let him say If ever he did taste the like. Love in that liquour sweet and most divine, Which my God feels as bloud; but I, as wine.