After some further speculation:

A decision, mainly.
The balance which is too delicate even to speak of, has been thrown. Throated.
In any case, what is left beside the expanse of breath, the hole. It is the same space between lips, where He lays whispering to the soil. He is spraying seed into the throat of delicacy, spilling beauty and filling our stomachs with it. The mind screams, piercing graves of the angels, raising them. The sound of a scalpel splitting a hair. The angels move across a field, stooped over. Old. Their white hair dragging the soil, entangling Truth with it. A second movment brings the rain, and sorrow is blown out over the water. Not to dissipate, merely regroup. The command, dilute. What else may melt away the gloss. Truth, Beauty, all things...