Metaphor turns all

to itself. I am no more

the subject, than I

am the object. Like Delphic

seers speak god’s voice,

the poem moves through me—

changing itself like air

moving slowly across grass.

As a child I’d dangle

my feet in Clark’s creek.

Minnows nibbled my toes

cautiously; I’d sit still

as god listening to prayers

happy in my boredom.

(June 6, 2018)