The Perfect God
The perfect god puts forth no dogma, cant,
or laws that dim the soul. He lets you sleep
and eat and work and love and treats you like
a man, woman. He needs no slaves; the self-
appointed, meek but cruel--they annoy him.
There are old books he didn’t write but likes
for their rhythms and truths some of the stories tell.
He likes, loves these books. I said, but is bored
by exegesis too literal, wild.
Prose, poems, sometimes suffer the same fate,
but this also bores him and he won’t, can’t,
or does not care, or dare to interfere
with either. The perfect god is sad, hurt,
when humans fear their lives--those solitudes
so small beside the tundra, polar caps,
Congo River (whose every curve he loves),
the empty, equatorial bliss. He likes,
loves what’s vast, which seems to us so blank.
He loves what’s sane, serene, and fiercely calm,
which he didn’t invent but understands.
The perfect god--and god, yes, is perfect
is impassive, patient, aloof, alert,
and needs not our praise nor our blame.
And needs not our praise nor our blame.