From the porch, I ask God if time tastes
like an orange peel left on the table,
or if it’s more like the fuzz on a peach.
Is it a callous on your ring finger?
Or a scratch on your arm that stings?
From the porch, I ask God if he’s a poet
or comedian, or if, maybe, he’s both.
And, by the way, what does it mean to be
Water, or a Word? Does it flow the way light
walks through the hills with her hands
out, and rustle the leaves? Or is it the sun,
sitting on a rock by a creek near a hillside,
untying her boots? Please God, tell me.
What’s your favorite bird? What song
does it make?