Thursday, September 01, 2005

Psalm 19

The sky is a vast twinkling playground
for the child I've made of my God.
Each day is a new word learned
and each night a fancy new trick.
We sit in the yard
and worship the sun
like it's about to be married
or run a race.
Our sun goes everywhere
I can't.
My child-like God
is perfect
so I feel like an idiot.
Right enough to make me
be glad
if I knew how,
pure enough to straighten
my eyesight.
If I could respect
my invention
it would be clean
& everlasting,
Its judgment would
seem fair
and valuable
and sweet.
It would
free my bones
from their permafrost
and I would feel rewarded.
But the faults
I've built into God
aren't to be understood.
They're my dirty secrets,
my automatic failures.
The habits that control me.
I've given up the power
to be innocent
or use words
or give weight to