A Net to Catch a Silver Fish

by Darby Mitchell

To let go,
To go forward,
He flung out the sparkles,
The stuff of His will,
The prints of His fingers,
Which weren’t fingerprints yet
Nor even fingers,
Because God was formless,
But what the hell, He did it anyway,
Because there’s a fool born every minute
And He was it —
He flung the sparkles
That weren’t mere sparkles
But light itself
Out,
Beyond,
And — He couldn’t help it —
Was Himself cast helter-skelter among the pretty sparkles,
Became His own reflection,
The darkness that held the sparks in fluid, flexid bond,
The grid on which,
In which
And beyond which
All time would take root
And,
With time,
Agony,
And, with agony,
Knowledge,
And,
With knowledge,
Joy,
But even before He did it,
It was already done,
Because it was,
Already,
Because it had to be,