I would be a forger
of the highest
order & instruct
the flowers at the border
that these words come
straight from tongue
of God into my own.
My own tongue.
God & me, kissing
like that, His saliva
alive, oh, an ambrosia
of inspiration,
of spiritus, of word
breathed in my lung.
But these are only words.
Only mine. No more
divine than blood.
Idea forged in reckoning
of holy wind, a Book
of Respiration breathed
into my breast.
Even pretense can
invigorate. I am
as a preacher praising
to the flowers at the gate
a god who comes
& goes. Like a lover
who we sometimes love
& sometimes hate,
a necessary fantasy
inspiring the sacred
lays that shape
the outline
of his sacred grace.
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