who must have got caught
in the grill
of this brand new,
fully-loaded,
midnight black Camry:
who'll speak for you now
as the flies close in?
I suppose
that I will—though only
through roundabout
questions, I'm afraid,
whose answers can be
felt, but they can't
be explained.
For instance—how
in the world do things stay
where we put them?
And—is God the you
that watches you
from deep inside your head?
Was anything sacred
before that word
was invented?
And, if nothing at all,
does that mean
everything, then?
