If you ask me, when God
Speaks
From the whirlwind,
The syllables He utters
Are guttural,
Crude, destructive.
I prefer Emily’s music
That seems to issue
From a pool
Whose spiral motion
Is pulling her in and down.
Each poem is a whorled
Shell
I hold to my ear.
Roar of the Abyss?
Yes, but above it,
Her clear
And human voice,
Singing as she drowns.