It’s come down to this:
vague disappointment to awaken
and find myself still in the game.
Familiar board, same piece.
That moon last night—a giant fib
thrilling me over and over again
as if it had a new idea,
a fresh plan.
How many moons does it take
to understand the rules described by holy
gamblers in God’s clothing
who tap my shoulder and ask me to play?
How many mornings after to realize their suave disguise?
Then do I smack or bless them for driving me home?
All games end now. I
uncover the lies of a lifetime,
layered below the firmament like this horizon—
clouds, mist over mountains, then hills,
the line of shore, flat water—
beneath all, solid earth.
Affirm this:
If I am not God,
there is none.