I sometimes think of you
like a flicker of light in the corners of my eyes,
the little blips that follow tributaries
across my vision when I stand too quickly.
When I close my eyes and open them again they will still
be there but
you will not.
Even though these fetch-like sparks
these tiny stars are no more than
errant signals flashing across the void of
a less-than-perfect fleshy machine, they will
always be more real than you ever
managed to be.
(please don’t be angry with me,
I haven’t yet given you a name.)
You are the God that ancient scribes could never capture in words.
You are the fish that never does more than heaves itself
over the surface of the water, tempting us fishermen and
sending us home with nothing more than the space of air between two outstretched hands.
I would not be satisfied if you were
any less elusive. You break nets with your teeth
and your intake of breath gives birth to