To the Formless God
By mid-morning the grey fog burns off Biscayne Bay.
Land surfaces, a silver glint under the veil.
I trust it’s there—I’ve seen its bottlenose before.
For years I’ve prostrated before marble, black stone, brass, burning incense, repeating
God’s name.
There is no one to ask me anything.
Rain floods the highway under construction.
The Bible says, Add enough clay and it becomes slip: sediment and water at once.
No matter how much I read, I am a city of charred rubble folding my
streets-turned-canals in prayer.
On the highway I cross the bridge.
Mist vapors up from the water like the Holy Ghost, like resurrection.
When the city burns away does sea ferry rock back to its prior self?
What becomes of the idol where there is no one to ask anything of—clay doesn’t know
itself as clay.
I’ve never been more flooded yet parched with hymns.
I strain my eyes searching the streets for dolphins.
The Garden Walls Fail
It’s summer and I don’t believe myself nor
my meds of gila monster saliva transfigured
into a chemical that lowers A1C, my summer
body buried so far in the past, it was never a body.
My overall plasticity of joint, of grey matter
long since began its decay. I once prized
your squash, salting slices, squeezing water,
breaking the web of cheese cloth. I can’t recall
what I made of all that yellow. Or your face
in marvel. We too, one summer past the summer
before, no miracle serpent to spit antidote. For now
I’m lost in the strawberries, my hands in cow shit.
The house of us stands. Renovations can wait
until next year. Yes. Next year will be better.
***
Author photo by Bryan Kamaoli Kuwada
