Poem: Unplumbed

The intellect builds with a compass and weight,
An empire of angles, of limits and bone.
But the blood is a rhythm the brain won’t dictate,
A gravity drawing to spaces unknown.
It weaves through the margins the logic ignores,
Unlocking the heavy, invisible doors.

Beneath the arithmetic friction of thought,
There slumbers an ocean the mind cannot plumb.
A fluency neither surrendered nor bought,
Where loud and empirical voices grow dumb.
It charts no meridian, proves no design,
But traces the root of a deeper divine.

When sorrow tears all the equations apart,
And rational comfort is gasping for breath,
There wakes an impossible grace in the heart,
That carries a loyalty deeper than death.
It gathers the fragments the intellect spurns,
And breaks itself open, and loves as it burns.

And when the cold architecture gives way
To the staggering rush of this inward expanse,
A holy machinery beneath our clay,
Now catches the frame in a luminous dance.
The cynical armor is shattered apart,
Transfiguring flesh to the shape of the heart.