She says
her vision trumps
her hearing.
She would rather be
deaf than blind.
I don’t wish either fate
for you, I respond.
Why would you
want to discuss this?
Why start
our relationship
here?
Isn’t every relationship
a case of constantly deciding
which senses to trust,
and which to disregard,
she asks?
Why not
just start
by admitting it
and going
into that void
together?
Hard to argue
with someone
who smells like
silence, darkness,
and roses.
In my Good Book
a lot is left to imagination.
You attach a tag called “faith”
to every stone and garbage can.
For you, belief is as percussive
as a bowling ball fired through those trashcans.
Is that racket what you call your Creator?
I’ve heard worse, smaller names.
I cannot imagine the depth
of such bomb crater hymns.
It’s not up to me to police
the rituals you choose.
It’s not up to me to pretend
I believe in everything at once.
A deity as certain and as loud as yours
demands you frame your devotion in steel.
I’m more of a water man
enslaved to a God with little rigidity.
Who gets to say which is the right one?
Each of us. Each deluded one of us.
Dark Matter 