God is in the attic,
somewhere between the rigid mirrors
and austere photographs of people who dreamed,
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.