The voice that came to me in childhood dreams
was big and deep and faraway in an echoed way
even though it was inside the small space of my head
and if I had been raised differently I’d have known
the blindingly obvious, that it was God speaking.
And understand that I mean this literally, not as a poet
but as a man who does not, cannot, believe in Him.
It was the weight of it, something I cannot describe
but felt like a resonance in my bones and skull,
as if God were in all things, even in me who knows better,
And in every bee that paints the flowers pollen-gold.