All my gods, and
Most of my my devils,
Come to me with
Their hair disheveled:
With twitching eyes
And imperfect words,
Not grand like planets
Nor high like birds;
They get hungry and angry,
Self-bound and distant,
Confused as they speak
And lost as they listen;
Carrying old habits
That weigh them down
And wary of fresh thoughts
Worth keeping around;
They get low and lonely,
Anxious and distracted,
With feelings de-coupled
And faces overacted.
Yet some are my gods:
They teach me, despite
Their own incompletions,
What is full, flowing, bright
In this life. And some, devils:
They tempt me to chase
What is leaving them fractured,
Sunk, stagnantly braced.
And I have to get so close,
To see them as divine:
From a distance, they simply
Look like—
friends
of mine.
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