No Reality But the Ruined Idea of a God We Speak To

Gnat caught in the breath of a dismantled catechism
on a cracked pew in a cathedral by the sea,
restore with your nothing wings
the way to where I left my shoes.

No imagination but in your tiny, ruptured eyes
which may as well see no thing,
before a brain which cannot count,

behind the inverted cradle of my hands,
which in a moment or two
will dispatch what I forget.

Matthew Henriksen (© 2008)