A swung lay chorus of our flicker-gleamed and braided
Bodies standing in each other’s holograph, and them all watching
Our faces stared opposed.
No one speaks.
And ONE, two, three, ONE, two—
At distance, just noise and see-through Adam, see-through Eve
Flicker-merged on stage spotlit. Split second disappearing
But all the eyes fixed. Few in the crowd bobbing, tapping
Beginning to drink bass chords.
All the rest stomach-throated.
Standing in ourselves, I face left, you face right, transparent-fused
We whisper, “We can make us.”
ONE, two, three.
Now the women in their seats, waist-bent swaying, thirsty.
And the men jaw-locked, head-dipped, ruling.
“God can go,” breathes out the speakers, thundering the dome.
Slow, standing crowd.
Slow, stripping down.
Zooming out: building.
Zooming out: dirt.
Zooming out: city.
Zooming out: earth.
Zooming out: space, stretched and untold.
God sits curious.
And slight noise, maybe something.
Wailing out, “God, goodbye.”
Liege looking down, on all the flesh thrashing.
All saying bye.
Him thinking: Alright.
Him nodding: Try.
—N.C. Robert is a poet and author from Toronto, Ontario. He loves to spend his time in nature with interesting people. His first novel, A Coast, will be published in the fall of 2018.