After "St. Matthew and the Angel"

To see a thing truly, one must
sometimes turn slightly away;
only in this manner, for example,
can certain constellations be fully seen—
by training one’s eyes upon
proximal emptiness, placing trust
in an elegant elsewhere,
the all-consuming eternity
it holds. In the silence, we wait
for whispered words, an arrow
for a quill, sharpened black,
at the ready. O, for a hand,
not to guide, but a gentle warmth,
a presence when our labors
feel so solitary, so solemn;
assurance these words will live on,
will bear fruit; a prayer that when
this work is finished, we may
look upon what we’ve written
without memory of its origin.