Godliness

I 

long 

to write 

a poem 

that

disentangles

me 

from the 

world.

To turn away

from grasping,

yet not

spare the lamb.

Has a poem

ever been 

born

without
something

being

ravaged?

What if

we are
meant
to be

our own

sacrifice?

Look how 

close 

the words

sacred and scared

and scarred

are.

Some

are lamed early

by the very

forces that will
bring about

their strength.

They discover
the secret.

To curb one’s desire 

so to quench 

the soul’s thirst

(despite our being 

made of

two thirds
water),

brings 

godliness

with or without

a God.

Still

we resist

being solved

and 

there’s no

solving others;

our natures

are

too fluid.

I’ve taken

to stuffing 

stones in

my pockets

 for fear

of floating

upward to
some second
surface;
another canvas,

yet our own.

Why,
when my art

is here?

Consider the bird,

or cat,
or catbird;
any animal

who has no choice

but to be where

the fates

have fixed it,

in other words:

where we

find ourselves.

Only an orphan

knows by

a lack

of experience

how kindness

is what 

it takes

to make

a world

a home.

In the city,

my nature

now 

seems 

remnant.

A red leaf 

under foot

goes

unnoticed,

whereas the

smashed pigeon

in the middle
of the road

is so startling

that it might

as well be

God’s

signature;

 a quill

dipped in 

it’s own blood.

But 

the heart 

knows things

the mind

can’t fathom.

For instance;

it's what
one

does after

being dashed
to bits

that holds the most

weight.

Peter Valentyne

October 19th, 2019