I:
But if you ask the same of me,
I'd say,
"Never have been,
never will be,
but learning to live
with the consequences
and find stability."
So, by pale yellow light
reflected off bronze
that I can't believe
doesn't move when I look away,
I guess I meditate
with aid of orange juice
God never returned
slipping through my fingers
and trapped lyrics
dripping from my lips.
Sprinkler systems sputter
into white noise
intermittently broken by
passing feet and chatter
and crickets and humming
and an occasional direct address,
drawing my thoughts away
from the cobweb down
Jesus' bronze back
and to an even more
unfamiliar face.
Because:
"No, it's fine,"
and
"Sure, I've got time,"
but
"Just let me check up
on one thing,"
to confirm my bias
and push my mind
to draw reaching palms
from grooves in
rusticated stone.
Still, I am sure
that if I glance away
Jesus will reach to me
and explain,
"God left to get some orange juice,
but that was years ago.
It's time to grow up
and buy your own,"
as if it's a lesson
that I don't know.
II:
I wonder if anyone goes home
to write a poem
about meeting a
strange girl
meditating
on a statue
way too late
at night.
III:
Wine glass full of
soon forgotten
memories and
streetlights raining
parametric down
conversion from
birefringent crystals
in your mind,
fast and slow
axes indistinguishable.
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