Job II
They don’t know why
we’re kind, really.
Maybe your fingers on my arm
are like veins on a leaf,
or the dances bees do,
or something else
between genes.
And I don’t know if I am kind,
or that I want to be,
or that it’s not really something
super, below.
The poets have their own equations:
It’s those roots half-bulged in the grass,
or the sweat on her lips,
or the memory of your father
pouring skim milk into his tea.
A passing sense of yes.
Promised infinity,
we climb out on the roof,
every night waiting
to see our dad fly home;
Each plane a promise
that the other one exists.
Losing the bet,
God went double or nothing:
I bet I can make them
sense me, somehow.
Fine, said Satan.
Just don’t touch the house.
Poor guy just paid that off.
