I don’t count, every day, the strides
from door to car, wondering: Philosophy,
before it became religionized—key in the hole,
foot lightly feeding fuel to the ignition process:
I do think: philosophy, limited, by transport
over mountain pass, the winters
before internet and jet, before
the engine search, instantaneous
gov’ment, loaded with itself— Religion:
something to tell the kids. At the traffic lights,
depending on the time of my return, the vehicles,
in winter, deliquescent with children
and the quantifiable variety of question
being asked, I think of the big steps
into the foggy potential of vast collusion.
Never mind if Moses stole from Krishna
Truths to pin a Lie upon, am interested only
in that first: Is Santa real? Soon, on the laws
of relativity, and on the highway out, observing sheep,
their cloudy forms, the leather satchels
of the cows, I remember my self, on the lawns
of childhood, studying the length of path,
what it was to a snail, going as fast as it could,
which wasn’t enough, from under the wood,
along the concrete to the lettuce and back
before sun-up. Philosophy, as it is, that
which is itself so it may be, not the thing
explained, the dry shells Religion leaves
children to quarry the spiral …did I mean: query?
Oh well, not the hole, or the mineral dug,
not these things explained, the golden means
but the knowing of an explanation happened.
And the daylight comprehension altering
as our position on the platform alters, and Seeing,
excited differently, at night, with headlamps, the
responding-parent, holding your warm small hand,
the non-Becausing guardian, awestruck at least,
under the diverse blacknesses of the sky above the houses.
The lit-curtain window, hue, and roofing,
diversity, the hissing start to the word: sssStar.
The shape of the nineteenth letter. Even.
The choice, and acceptance enacted, for this
alphabetic facet of the absolute yet limitless
potential of the Real, not asking why
Horror and Scope go together, not burning
raw and weird to be around searching
for the accurate letter from gOd to why
She went ahead, ‘knowing there’d be trouble
and doing it anyway.’ On the formica table,
by the Best and Worst Creation Myths,
laying around for you to find, the paperback
dictionary of gods: three thousand entries, or more.