Electromagnetic
Spectacular
Neither
my eyes, nor scents inside my nose,
nor ears, nor gifts of taste at all disclose
your presence, though I feel you, Infrared,
upon my hands and face and balding head.
Your warming vibes I only “see” with light
through lens of Centigrade or Fahrenheit,
or (driving flat-land highway sun’s made hot)
in shimmering mirages that look squat.
You Broadcast Bands I neither see nor hear
if I don’t alter you for eye and ear,
you X-rays which, invisible, go through
my flesh to film and there my bones construe,
you Microwaves that cook my savory meal—
phenomena like you—you all reveal
Divine Intelligence, sensed everywhere
whenever I bring consciousness to bear.