Touch it, thought the black unformed,
though thought is a crude approximation of how
it moved. Long to . . . love it, the formless-
formed murmured. Shape into light
was an urge loosening from somewhere,
shape into night and day oozed next, and
next, and next. Then birdsong coalesced
and eyelash turned worlds to storm, and golden,
and heights, flight. At the wedding feast,
Your first thought filled the water jugs with good wine,
even as You knew nail, the stone’s cool shelter,
and later, their staggering joy. Alone among men,
You knew how the unformed furled itself toward us.
Red stain upon red stain, the magnetic pull, the restoration.