Psalm to Trickster

I have lived a very long time.

Enough to see your infinite cunning.

I will not list the ways of the unlistable.

Instead there is geometry.

The schematics of every breathing machine

in all creation, diagrams undecipherable by 

all who depend on every tiny part working.

Only the science fools me, so I perform it. 

In galleries. When the small crowd is gone and 

only cement floors and white walls see me as I am.

You and your many wires, many knobs,

many tubes of salvation—the sound of living 

things passing one another, breathing in unison.

The sound of airwaves rolling over lies

to reveal the very first creation story.

The sound of mythology winning

the very last debate, the sound still 

hijacking every sense that all is lost.

The howl of pages turning in the hurricane, of

alphabet soup exploding into War & Peace 

by chance.

These sounds.

All because of the flurry 

of your invisible fingers.

You trick winter into summer into winter,

and none of us knows what hit them.

Why any oak spreads wings over 

the city floor is beyond me.

I cannot guess your next move.

You lead me into underwater caves

in search of a hidden library.

Rewrite my history, make me 

wait out the invisible roar.

Bombs hit all the wrong landmarks,

and that is how aliens read our 

gorgeous hieroglyphics from afar.

We never understand your play.

You pull back all the tracks but 

one, and that is our life story.

We never hear that classic rock masterpiece

all heaven hears on a Sunday afternoon.