God, you with the gaping red mouth

On Saturdays,

I think of ordinary trees,

and the one that still whimpers in my dreams,

from years ago, from my childhood, from my house;

where my mother would read and I’d watch her,

thinking life fit in a book,

when she’s done reading both of us would die,

but it spills over and it was only ever enough to kill her;

I am now light years away from her,

and closer to more trees,

reading more and more;

how time feels about

knowing it’s only born to pass,

what happens to a boy when he finds out

he cannot carry an ocean in his palms,

the shame of having a face and having

to show it to the world,

the taking off of clothes alone and

with somebody else,

the smell of your skin

translated; edited by whatever comes and goes;

On Saturdays, I praise God, the great shoplifter,

you lonely stealer of things,

where do you keep everything you take away?

still, you cannot take away from what is mine,

that I write to you from dark underwaters,

and even though it could kill me

it chooses not to kill me.