I don’t hear a god talking to me,
nor see gnostic visions from some hill.
I hear people speaking one to another,
their voices weave patterns out of air:
a quilt to keep our thoughts warm,
safe, obedient to our structured desires.
No paranoid delusions of abstract control,
no hubris that I can see beyond our life:
the street in front of me is just the street
that is in front of me, no significance
beyond a way to be here or not here,
transcendent only in the sense that today
becomes today yet again in ongoing temporal
tessellations like heat waves across the horizon.