By DAN BEACHY-QUICK 

So simple is the soul  
a house finch can haunt its innermost 
ever, not for an hour, not for an era, but a  
different kind of forever, as in, as in,  
as in the dream of an infinite lever, & a lamb 
lifts up a mountain by stepping on the end  
of an endless branch propped beneath  
the stone—. That dream—. Of the long ago 
then, a sort of once-upon-a- 
time, when the pear sang out the finch’s tune 
& desire began again its how-to- 
see, how-to-hear, mystery burden so hard 
to bear—. Then God was a word 
for the perfection that no one could name—.