-turn
your eyes away from me, for-
this
Living God that is,
isn’t stone.
i can place before the idol
delicate displays of meat and fruit-
delectable, seared and sacrificed.
open the awning above,
and
bow down before
that graven image of god
and
chant the flawless rote
to
move
that
piece of architecture
-ornate
or invisible,
personal
or patriotic-
i can dial in all those
correct numbers and fill
in all those puzzle perfect pieces
by the ten percent yield
and expect an increase of
myself-
that
narcotic to ease
that
fat to fill
that
distraction of sound
adrenalin,
confusion and
loyalty
of blood.
All
these things each morning
i can be faithful to do
in
order to
bring
forth
and
to hide from and to search out
and
to maim that life
that
was given.
to
place it under stone, but
that Living God that is,
isn’t stone
and
one singular searching glance
silent- still-
can
take that divinely beating heart
by storm-
by storm-
uplift, capsize-
turn fierce and melt away in love.
