Our conversations wind round and round, snagged and tangled and torn
Like the thick black vines that grow in that far off place in both distance and time,
Where balance was obvious and natural and not just an illusion created by too much distance
From the warbling, quivering products of the failing of earth’s least favorite creature
(human) who tries to drink the whole ocean, and step on all the ground.
We wallow deep down in politics, pointing out that peculiar red star
on warm nights before we realized it was only mars,
and springboard up and away from the damp grass that tickles our backs,
out into the possibilities of life-forms, so vast and unknowable,
droning softly to us through the benevolent wind, order, chaos, order, chaos…
Like God would if he were a sensible god,
who we would hate if he was available for hating.
Instead we hate the believers that hope life into Him,
like the secretaries that validate important people,
too stupid to know how contrived He is, the same way language is,
So we guess banishing God that way,
would mean banishing the words we use to banish It.
It would mean banishing this poem.
If you get too technical