A mutual friend, who I don’t trust
as much as you do, claimed
that god used to just blurt out, I love it,
love it, way back when landscapes overlapped movements,
well before the proof of ass and bullets.
I have trouble with connections.
It’s kind of devastating to watch the dead,
or even the willing, move from where they were worshiping
the bump in the basement, to make a family
with the pond whose only instructions are
to go brighter and clearer, you must.
Friendship is different. You say, my grandmother
was once a butcher. I say, mine wasn’t.
And we know it’ll be a struggle to keep
the other one happy, but okay.