and the gentle sound of leaves falling,
i think this must be it.
and the sound of the neighbor’s car arriving home,
and i think this must be it.
and the sound of the dog contentedly licking his chops right next to my seated ear,
and i think this must be it:
that invisible thing i’m longing for–
but i don’t want to be one of the masses
holding my arms in the air at the first glimpse of avatars, messiahs or alien ships.
i do not grovel for salvation.
what god would ask this of me?
we open the lock together.
come to my party when you already know this:
God is a sexy slow dance in the basement.
and, with that, i take my tea inside.