god’s shot

looked up from the second torrent of coffee this morning to see that Spirit's plumbline had split the
ceiling open like a green cord of ash ~ trajectory updown, telos everywhere, instructions clear:

climb and descend
climb and descend
climb and descend

~

up first, to an observation deck where I watched god put on his craft smock and smear wonder and
curiosities across the universe

and down, to a last supper where the serving plate was ideas, the offering metaphors and similes
carved from a horn of plenty without start or finish

~

to the up, where all the people I had ever othered were danced by Spirit into geometries
too brilliant to be seen through my reductions

and the down, where barefoot 400 meter loops stripped away all that I was not, a kilometer at at time

~

to the updown ~

where trajectory, telos, and instructions were just ideas
pulled up the retracting plumbline into god's lap;

where the transactions of the day pulled a translucent silk over my mind’s eye ~

and the next torrent of coffee simply waited on Grace's bench to be put back in the game