god is a blind man whose paradise exists
in the shape of a library, who covets
books the way a man who can see does, for whom
each volume is a life his touch cuts short when
even the torch puts into the heart what thoughts
cannot reveal, the secret of existence—
life’s meaning—is this: that we can feel, how we
interpret what happens to us is what trait
separates creation from him, since he knows
in advance, only we can react, and that
makes all the difference, everything else

is intrigue, season after season of change
punctuates one’s experience, sometimes with
belief, sometimes with reason, any question
that there remains which, with our divinity
within, we ourselves cannot yet already
answer, is but an affaire de cœur, for when
romance is given meaning, its mystery
disappears—this is what I learned from those girls—
those angels painted like whores—who guard heaven’s
door, that to get in you need to stay awake
while dreaming, and know when to read between lies.