It’s about learning to trust
the tug
that draws you to a shadowed alcove undisturbed
by footfall
and butter lamps,
a blue-dark coolness where you find him waiting patiently,
that perfect minor deity—
shy, crumbly,
oven-fresh, just a little
wry, content to play a cameo in everyone’s life but your own.
A god who looks
like he could understand errors in translation, blizzards on the screen, gaps in memory,
lapses in attention,
who might even learn by rote the fury,
the wheeze,
the Pali,
the pidgin,
the gnashing mixer-grinder, the awkward Remington stutter of your heart,
who could make them his own.
After that you can settle for none other.
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