Eight Stones for Simone Weil

simone twice

London is filled
with delicious little squares.
Sycamores rustle
above the lichened
bench, as I
weigh the
fullest possibilities
of self reduction.
Sparrows skip about
to search the paving.


Whatever I can
do to myself,
will it balance out
whatever is
happening beyond
the perimeter of
this sunken garden?


We consider, with
a lecturer’s wand,
the purest geometry
of existence:
cause and effect,
the mathematical
idealism of the arc.


A worker raises aloft
his hammer
before the strike.


It is painful
beyond any endurance
to feel this point.
To feel this
point is to know, with
an absolute clarity.


The God withdraws
himself almost
in his entirety
to leave a
waste of
time and
space, so
as to create
an abandonment
across which he
can come to meet us.


The humble and
obedient trees
being hacked
down to
construct the
slats of the
brutal instruments.


I am just a
microscopic crumb
to affect the angle at
which the planet rests
on Christ’s
appalling fulcrum.