Sounding

"...even though there stand beside thee thousands of archangels and ten-thousands of angels, the Cherubim and the Seraphim, six-winged, many-eyed, soaring aloft, borne on their pinions, singing the triumphal hymn..."

-St. John Chrysostom, from the anaphora of his Divine Liturgy

From months in early summer

the mouths of eager kids,

split wide, or with honest questions

set falling fair-flying pinions--upborne

and outset feather or gear--

to spin and ever-chanting,

breath filling ether and resounding.

Echoing, the din breaks against the ceiling of things,

smashes against the rocks,

poking up from the bottom, as with a broomstick

or cane.

Why the wheels?

The rings of rocks and dust. Pray, creation's dash,

spinning about, The worlds,

snuffing it?

Tumble dryly,

you creatures of light and thread,

holy fog, sputtering gearwork, heavenly industry.

Giants drawn on,

spinnakers filled by your breathing,

filled like shorts, rise to your howling pitch. See?

We fetch up.