In daylight wall is fact. Roof is art- ifact, vestige of earliest human-hewn structures, which were only roof, all loose suture, even then as functional as a fontanel in keeping darkness out. Or in. On the roof at night raindrops unmake themselves violently. There is so much chaos even order is made from it. Even fossils have electrons, along the cusp spinning. Hubble redshift at the edge of the universe is the ultimate marginalia: proof all things move away from their centers. Another dark calculation for the halo-less, the seraphs sans serif, all wall and no roof. The trouble with the word ‘invisible’ is that it can be written down. ‘Silent’ too is a word that betrays: anyone can speak of it, reminding us that at night fact is roof, ancient marginalia. Like electrons. Like angels. There is so much history even night is made of it. And walls. It’s why, numb as numbers, we keep burnishing the necessary stained glass of forgiveness, letting through light but not fact. As in, history is rain but raindrops are facts, relinquishing their edges, like all facts, when they run into a roof, a human edge. Note: The poem above contains variations on Christian Barter’s line “There is so much truth that even lies are made from it.”