R. Murray Schafer: Credo
  Scott Cecchin

                         As if
a feast were found
in the forest, table set like a Sunday
morning, with angels as houseguests.
                                                          As if
you’d emerged from a lifetime of
whatsit you mistook for silence,
into an amphitheater of mist and
angel’s breath.
                       As if
a forest had grown in front of your eyes,
tiny sprouts that bloom like a
zoom button.
                    As if
you’d taken a step, the most uncountable
step of your life, and suddenly,          ,
                                                           you’re falling,
through a great hall of ice, which flows
like its water self. You land at the
queen’s feet. She speaks a language you’ve
forgotten, filling the
hole at the centre of your life. A terrible
torrent of déjà
vu. The puzzle pieces finally fitting as each piece
scatters in the wind like
leaves blown off the trees
during Halloween gusts. You,
desperate to explain – all the other monarchs
meant nothing. You, unworthy. Cursing a lifetime
of infidelity. But how answer, when
speechlessness is your only
           There is a place you are meant
to be. A clue you’d
forgotten at
        As if
your home had been turned
inside out, and there was no way
in but away and away.

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