god’s eyes are shut.
in his yard,
a tree bears twelve wishes for offspring
twelve wombs’ waiting, tethered tight to its bark,
a circumventing mother’s eyes pressured shut, chanting
please please please please.
this tree probably has delivered the approximate number.
god’s eyes are shut
between one and four at noon.
the absence of a red or black circle on my forehead
tells him i won’t visit anyway.
trapped in stone, then four walls, heavy curtains, wooden doors,
and even iron grills,
god yawns at the world hurling past in a hurry,
at his more faithful pieces touching each cheek at a time,
or kissing a bent finger,
in a reflex, lasting five seconds.
my unbowed eyes, glazed over by original plans,
exclusive of the maker,
tell him i won’t visit anyway.
but i pass him by, everyday,
around a round-about, dedicated just to his shrine.
his eyes are shut,
between one and four at noon,
and i’m glad he can’t see me
everytime i inhale
his camphor skin doused with water.
a moist calm of belief.
olfactory is my religion.