We can talk about God. The meta.
Above, below, without, within
grace, purity, sin
the beginning and also the end.
Or we could talk about creator and not pretend.
We can say this is not real, although it really is.
We can claim imagination on the borderline of genius
and dismiss it as child’s games, pirates or orphans
imposed on bolted plastic playgrounds,
wobbling against the sandpit of earth.
And we can bring up God, but that may be Its birth.
Not here before yesterday or a century past,
or two centuries ago. No removed.No meta.
Barely a creaking toad. One sound, long then short, time after time.
One bird’s lonely whistle repetitive not stopping. What is a meta?
Where is the god in that dull sound? No matter what is said,
we know God is the God of now. Not then.
So why should we look for gods below
above, within, without, forward, back
left wrong, right?
Tell us so we can at least discuss It in relation to us.
Not below stones and gravel and soil.
Our creator’s setting was formed at the thin tip of a pen.
Not above. Soil of another sort. Space and time.
Laid out like a bed made up, only when we lay down heads and dream
do we see past the workings of God into what God means. Not without,
and not within, although these places are crucial.
The cliff edge where the final leap will be taken. Into what?
The open arms of empty metaphor. And why, what for?
Just to know.
So we can hum along with the song.
This word will be hard and bring no satisfaction. God.
To us, beyond. Gone. But with Its signature scrawled into existence.
A fire to sit around warmed, thinking of a metaphor God to discuss.