I try to form prayer’s capital word

On my tongue. O sweet imagination

Give it shape enough! Love!

Love should taste of something,

The sea, I think, brined and unsteady,

Of scale and deep and all we crawled out from.

Of first day, the Spirit’s debut,

The frantic dove torn apart,

Her feathers ash on Eden.

Yet of that of which we cannot speak

We must pass over in silence –

Selah!

The Spirit itself maketh intercession for us

With groanings

Which cannot be uttered.