i don’t want to write
a poem about you.

i want to write
instead about the sycamore,

& the God inside,
in everything,

everywhere,
in me & you—

but,

i don’t want to write
a poem about you.

that’s common,
quotidian,

& could be filled with
“empty platitudes.”

but my words are magic:
These are the Words i share

with Infinite Intelligence—
with God.

so i’ll let Those Words
flow from this pen.

& maybe it’s the full moon,
& maybe it’s the needles

in my stomach,
legs & feet,

or maybe it’s the sycamore
holding me up,