A Theodicy 

If as I believe there’s a theater

Beyond Andromeda

 

Faulty yet welcoming

That arch is Auden’s—

 

Scripts of universal alarm

Must be recited

 

In cold and light

While gods make

 

A polite audience.

Here, as tomorrow

 

Is untitled, our shoulders

Bear luck or mass

 

And from the wings

A determined plain voice

 

Cries wait, wait for me.