I knock on the door and God, the
butler,
Emerges
from the mirror where He,
In
His shirtsleeves, has been polishing silver.
He
gravely takes my name; when I leave,
It
will be returned, cleaned and invisibly mended
And
smelling pleasantly of lemon oil and camellias.
He
conducts me to the library where He
Courteously
puts aside His pen and book
Delaying,
perhaps forever, doom or salvation
For
some coterie of souls holding vigil
Watching
thick candles grow less or an ill moon
Turning
back half-risen. I hand Him the parcel
Addressed
to Him in beautiful handwriting
Which
I don't recognize. We speak for hours
In
languages I do not understand.
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