...these are the mere edges of His ways
From the window, the windbreaks and furrows argued.
I was not afraid by then, but held onto the swift turns
hard evidences of the shifting earth.
I wanted to feel these words as paintings
the way I felt when I danced
but there was no one to dance with
the way I wanted to dance
but stopped at every turn.
I kept inventing new roads
between the wales of corduroy
or were they rows of fields I traveled?—
All the distances to get away from—
it was then as now—
mere edges to cross.
This earth sits on a plate
over which God holds his knife and fork—
or was it pruning fork?—
A glob of a God
wondrous, large, expanding outward.