(being a conversation in eight poems between an aged Lucifer and God, though only Lucifer is heard. The time is long after.) | 1 | invitation |  | come coil with me | here in creation’s bed | among the twigs and ribbons | of the past. i have grown old | remembering the garden, | the hum of the great cats | moving into language, the sweet | fume of the man’s rib | as it rose up and began to walk. | it was all glory then, | the winged creatures leaping | like angels, the oceans claiming | their own. let us rest here a time | like two old brothers | who watched it happen and wondered | what it meant. |  | 2 | how great Thou art |  | listen. You are beyond | even Your own understanding. | that rib and rain and clay | in all its pride, | its unsteady dominion, | is not what you believed | You were, | but it is what You are; | in your own image as some | lexicographer supposed. | the face, both he and she, | the odd ambition, the desire | to reach beyond the stars | is You. all You, all You | the loneliness, the perfect | imperfection. |  | 3 | as for myself |  | less snake than angel | less angel than man | how come i to this | serpent’s understanding? | watching creation from | a hood of leaves | i have foreseen the evening | of the world. | as sure as she | the breast of Yourself | separated out and made to bear, | as sure as her returning, | i too am blessed with | the one gift You cherish; | to feel the living move in me | and to be unafraid. |  | 4 | in my own defense |  | what could I choose | but to slide along behind them, | they whose only sin | was being their father’s children? | as they stood with their backs | to the garden, | a new and terrible luster | burning their eyes, | only You could have called | their ineffable names, | only in their fever | could they have failed to hear. |  | 5 | the road led from delight |  | into delight. into the sharp | edge of seasons, into the sweet | puff of bread baking, the warm | vale of sheet and sweat after love, | the tinny newborn cry of calf | and cormorant and humankind. | and pain, of course, | always there was some bleeding, | but forbid me not | my meditation on the outer world | before the rest of it, before | the bruising of his heel, my head, | and so forth. |  | 6 | “the silence of God is God.” | —Carolyn Forche |  | tell me, tell us why | in the confusion of a mountain | of babies stacked like cordwood, | of limbs walking away from each other, | of tongues bitten through | by the language of assault, | tell me, tell us why | You neither raised your hand | Nor turned away, tell us why | You watched the excommunication of | That world and You said nothing. |  | 7 | still there is mercy, there is grace |  | how otherwise | could I have come to this | marble spinning in space | propelled by the great | thumb of the universe? | how otherwise | could the two roads | of this tongue | converge into a single | certitude? | how otherwise | could I, a sleek old | traveler, | curl one day safe and still | beside YOU | at Your feet, perhaps, | but, amen, Yours. |  | 8 | “.........is God.” |  | so. | having no need to speak | You sent Your tongue | splintered into angels. | even i, | with my little piece of it | have said too much. | to ask You to explain | is to deny You. | before the word | You were. | You kiss my brother mouth. | the rest is silence.