Basin below to drain the sea into, sky
some kind of beaten metal, you can see
how it might gleam, burnished, blotches of gold
shifting as you shift, no sightlines yet, just sight
occurring as tone, then recurring. Blotted. Each wash
slightly new. And smoother, as if scrubbed,
touched—I want to touch—I could fold
that gold almost, foil-fine, I can’t see
where the light is coming from—where’s
our one glitzy moon, smearing white oil
on the water? Sunscreen milk film, creatures
there aren’t, not breaching, not drinking,
not sucking spiders from where they protrude
into the blank air, no globes greater or lesser
to point to. Just light. Like thought, like what we imagine
thought is. Not how it is really. I’m guilty
when I write. That’s not how You do it, is it?
You who hold back the sky, who make Your dome.