Tabernacle

God is in the attic,

somewhere between the rigid mirrors

and austere photographs of people who dreamed,

in order,

of wound watches keeping perfect time,

of sleep and work and the embrace of a good chair,

and who asked that they not be mourned.

 

When I was a child,

I would cup my hand over a flashlight

and scan the hot glow with mechanical concern

to glimpse a fickle spark of my soul

between the blood and bone.

 

God is here,

hiding like a child who’s fallen asleep

waiting for his imaginary friend to find him.