Untitled, Mae Ryan

 

 

He talks of Relativity but
half of Freundlich’s team
is taken prisoner.
The rest of us are left to
gaze at the gray,
condensing lid
descending;
those clouds overhead
remind me of a
time in Berlin.
A naked girl stood
in the window;
she saw me look and
pulled the shade down.
Science is cold to the
miracle. I think Russia
is colder.
Well, better luck to Eddington,
maybe he will catch it.
I saw one,
once.
It was like watching a
wounded God. Or gazing into
a dark, black mouth.
The lips, dripping hungrily with
eager slobber—divine light
bent around its jaws.
It seems God doesn’t
want us men to see all his
secrets exposed.
Presumably like girls
in Berlin.