this recidivist
is sure his god exists
but can’t define its fibre
or paint its weight,
except to say his Deity is
twenty tons of chocolate,
sunlight slanted burgundy—
a runny egg, a bit of thread, a cherry tree.

this recidivist
is sure his god exists
but only the throes of sleep
and even so
he only knows his god is
water, boiling.
10 butterflies, three dead,
a bulb, a fist, a fingernail—
a telephone, an adjective like ravishing—
a verb like sleep, a noun like bed.

this recidivist
is sure his god exists,
as salt or cake or seafoam grey—
as pencil lines or cotton socks,
coffee cups with lipstick marks—
rust, cream, glue, smoke.
spiderwebs. clay.

this recidivist
is sure his god exists,
but can’t refine its cane
or frame its face.
He only knows his god is
water, boiling.

§418 · March 30, 2005 · Tags: ·

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