Grace bathes us
Inside and out, most of it passing right through,
Our neuron mesh not fine enough to stop it
Much less deflect its quantum beeline through space.
We are sieves with holes the size of eyes,
Splayed fingers trying to lift a beach. The pulse
Is our built-in Geiger counter and the best gage
We have. It tells us when we get close
To grace in more than trace amounts, to a deposit
Of it glowing deep in the mine. The usual
Blip . . . blip . . . blip . . . of the heart's casual scanning
Crackles awake for once. It's the sound of a necklace
Snapped, gray pearls pouring, bouncing, staccato all over
A marble floor. The sound of full blown monsoon on the roof,
A genuine deluge drowning out the faucet that has dripped
Your whole life long. The sound of an epileptic finger endlessly
Double-clicking the icon of its worship
To open a new window on the soul.