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I seek to praise the imperfections of an unfinished creation, not to kill with words or the names of god the epiphanies of which we all are capable, and by which we know and love it. The imperfection, the broken symmetry, the primal metaphor that cracked the universe into existence like an egg sizzling in the frying pan, made me capable of love and awe and idea and I can only be grateful, even as I curse its lash of pain and its sentence of death.

There is no god willing to meet us, or no. There is no "higher power" to have a relationship with, by any name. There is nothing to turn away, nor can we turn away. We have each lost other seeking mismatch, to garble something Galway Kinnell wrote. It's just us and the observable universe, which binds us and is bound up in our regard. The naming that leads to belief in names is, to steal a phrase, a progressive disease.

Words are still the enemy.