|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.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon