Crossing the God-line, I am in a space,
I tell myself,–lying–I made myself.
It’s always new, there’s always this re-birth
so long as I remember why I’m here
making the ordinary miraculous—
that means sometimes ridiculous.

To keep myself on earth, I have Rodin.
I’m looking at “The Kiss,” so often seen
in kitsch displays, the basements of cheap stores.
I need to look away—Platonic form
captured in my mind’s eye—it’s never trite.
You see, then, don’t you? As I speak, their flesh–
grown together that one instant he caught them—
who’s kissing whom? Idiocy to ask,
left over from looking at the real thing.
I close my eyes: one flesh: there’s no question.