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.

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~ by Jeremy on March 9, 2011.

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