Lord, forgive me.
I, preoccupied
with the Silence of God,
never attended
to the Silence of Man.
Decades, I slaved,
erecting Aristotlean
buttresses, arches,
stained-glass faith
framed by stolid reason.
I leave it unfinished,
that cathedral of doctrine,
the title itself, a farce!
Who can innumerate the infinite?
Incomplete, my cathedral.
No steep ridge
or vaulted ceiling.
At the highest point,
light breaks in.
Every arch straining
toward God
But at the pinnacle,
an opening.
Not an omission.
An aperture.
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