Do I want words the way I should want God?
Willing to give up everything for one enormous gulp
as if words were my air? Dying to lose myself
to a luscious swim in deep ideas,
to a board-whacking dive into the heart of things—
any sacrifice for the sensuousness of my pen on paper?
The sun sets, crickets chant. No one is waiting for
me to make dinner, phone calls, or love. I imagine
nothing else but my next words. Would I give up
any aspiration, appointment, meal, conversation,
love affair, parent-teacher conference, shopping trip,
vacation, compliment, heart-to-heart, anything and
all things, for a great poem? For a lip-smacking
steady toward the climax, mind-blowing orgasm of
words—a banner, ribbon, river, continent, a ship
of words, a bridge, an arc, a horizon of words?
Shouldn’t I pant after God this way? God’s breath
on my neck? God’s gaze? The subtle thrill
of God’s embrace, taking me into the space
beyond wanting where I am so filled with silence
I do not even think about words?
Or do I meet God
in my words? God celebrating God.
Am I the poem? Yearning only to know
the One who writes me?