The Position Taken Among Matters


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.