So it is to be, latent but translucent
that weavings and partings both,
secured in their places best suited
to their emergence or demise,
are laid out on God’s table of cards.
The goodbyes of days that turn to nights
that turn to days that turn to timeless
wonders, the crevices where only God’s
fingers fit. They’re too small for me
because I’m too big in me to see
my own smallness in him.
Wreck all chances for shoddy self-repair
and lay the table for a banquet instead,
where bread on my tongue and
the clinking glasses serve to remind me
of a better meal yet to come.