And Abraham picked up the knife to slay his son

 

I have lived in tents and often, at midday,
have I parted the tent-clothes and gone inside
with the light of day so blinding my eyes
that my wife spoke to me out of darkness,
saying, Take this dish, and eat.

 

I have walked among the flocks on starless nights
with the blackness so filling my eyes
I put forth my hand,
as if the night were a tent,
as if some shape might glimmer in my sight
before the cloths of night fell across it.

 

Eyes full of light or dark,
night or day, I cannot tell.
I grope forward to lift the cloth
of this moment, and the next.