Sometimes in one of my father’s crowd scenes
He’d draw Ming the Merciless, ragged and unshaven,
Next to the Angel
of Parentheses, whose job it is
To qualify every attempt to define God so that
When anyone says something like “The Hand of God”
Or “the Shadow of God,” the angel steps in and says
(Not that God has hands)
or (not that God has a shadow).
How these two first met I don’t know; I believe
It was before they joined my father’s stock company.
I see them, occasionally, going about their business
Or quietly having lunch in the shade left behind
When the Dutch elms were cut down in Union Square.
No comments:
Post a Comment