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Meta-A and the A of Absolutes by Jay Wright | Poetry Foundation

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I write my God in blue.

Share I write my God in blue. I run my gods upstream on flimsy rafts. I bathe my goddesses in foam, in moonlight. I take my reasons from my mother's snuff breath, or from an old woman, sitting with a lemonade, at twilight, on the desert's steps. Brown by day and black by night, my God has wings that open to no reason. He scutters from the touch of old men's eyes, scutters from the smell of wisdom, an orb of light leaping from a fire. Press him he bleeds. When you take your hand to sacred water, there is no sign of any wound. And so I call him supreme, great artist, judge of time, scholar of al

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