It's disappointing, you say, to see
religion decomposing
into mere art;
into words—into music.
And even music, you're afraid,
is decomposing
into math,
which nothing
but space
(and what is space? for that
matter—but coagulated
time?)
I'm sorry to say, but
your only hope is that
God might exist
in the walk I just took.
Pieces of him
might well be swimming,
in the tap water
I just drank from the jam jar.
Or, he might be sitting, sweaty with a
bed sheet over his head and cascading
down over his body,
and two holes where the eyes go
all alone in real-deal heaven—
his mischievous little imagination
tricking him into thinking
some friends are coming over.
