by Thomas Zimmerman

So God is lonely, wants our love: as good
as any theory. Three beers in, I start
to talk of Him. But then my very smart
friend shuts me up: I thought all that I could—

or needed to—of God, before my tenth-
grade year.
This makes me think of limits: God’s,
my smart friend’s, mine. Or this: what are the odds
this freckle on my wrist—yes, to the nth

degree innocuous, it seems—will break
into malignant blossom? I, my self,
must stretch beyond mere death. And on the shelf
sit books—by Whitman, Rilke, Frost, and Blake—

that deepen me. But now I need to walk
in woods beneath the stars. And then, let’s talk.


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