There’s no place that He isn’t
in interstices tinier than between

the crossbar and the “t” of “tiny”

But ask me if I think He’s
everywhere watching me

in love’s evergreen countenance
of stern forbearance

the way an object casts a shadow
when the light’s behind it

onto any wall
pure or impure

and I might as well drunk be genuflecting freely
before mud Chukwu at the

village entrance in Nigeria with the
other pagans only in worse state

since they in ignorance are

worshipping Allah
on the knob of His door

(though the door itself be holy)

while if I know He’s here but
don’t abide

I should know but don’t know
there’s nowhere to hide

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