The fishermen

There is no knack for god in me.
I would rather drink the pulp of trees
under a Cuban sunshine and Cuban feet.
I would rather freeze in a pine stand
than bow, than in me reach a hand,
nor lend an ear to everyone’s friend.
At night, when crickets brush their desert
I hear wind, their song, and it:
a humming throb of a worldly organ
in the plain sight of jumping crickets.
Where is god but a thing in me
that looks in, and pulls out nothing
like a bare-boned fish to fishermen
or a hook that hooks no daddy.


~ by Jeremy on March 9, 2011.

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: