The Vulcanologist In His Prayer Room

He ministers to a fall of the barometer,
an agitation of the magnetic needle.

Nature is convulsed, discharging itself
through layers of ice that fall to the north.

It is a noise like no other thunder,
sulpher afflicting the eyes of his bretheren.

He sings and the air becomes polluted
with grain. He prays and great quantities

of grey-white pumice fall like snow.
Fissures appear in the ground,

mirroring the thoughts of his
parishoners. "Guide us" they say,

"Our tongues are coated with tephra!
Lead us from this unholy thermal lake!"

Is it the white seed of the Almighty
that covers the earth ? Or the tears

and excrement of the Devil ?
Above him a dust cloud shimmers,

clogs his eyes with the dry soot
of eternal love. In darkness he stands

at the volcano's nape, yearning for light -
a Christ-lobe transmuting fire.