After the light and after

the song, in the part of the day

which goes out, where nothing comes back

at the wall of time, just after

the end of the matter.

At Kether, just this side of Ain,

the mind and the way and the door are one.

Like Evening Grosbeaks feed in flocks

and scare together, like Egyptian charms

stuck dick like

in the earth

and meant to keep the bugs from the corn,

like paleo‑flints chipped by a fire

then put in a pouch for later.

Like a green lion eating at the sun.

After the gathering of time and space

and when it’s all done up in a cone:

then we are back with the stars awash

in our mouths, plural, the same, and alone.

— Joseph Dionne