He Can't Read God

Closet door left ajar

in the room he slept in

yesterday.

Glasses smudged w/

the fingerprints of exhaustion,

settling on

life's footprint. Cotton sheets

left in the laundry basket

collect pixie dust and

the dust bunnies come

to life.

Wooden cross gives way to a

man's sensitivities, echo

the imprint of a new

day (set in creation).

The closet door is open and who knows what can get out.

Whatever it was, it:

- cleaned the spectacles and

- folded the laundry and

- fed the dog (which he forgot to do)

all in a noon day's time.

Rumor is it

comes from the

Closet door left ajar,

quiet and peaceful like a dove

in flight w/

a majesticness only found

in the eyes of NASA

(sometimes).

Galaxy and nebula and planet, Andromeda,

placed in a Nike shoebox

on the shelf of

a teenaged nerd with

ADHD and a habit of sleeping too much.

But he always leaves a crack in it

just in case.

Blurry vision stumbled for portholes,

cleaned not too long ago

but not reachable for now.

He can't read God, until

his eyes gain their moons.