Faithless

Imagine an earth

where everything you see,

from discernment’s birth,

is a symbol. Mama, Dadaist. 

A is for apple, 

but it’s more than it seems.

Apple might mean poison 

grown for vain, maternal schemes.

Or . . . it might mean knowledge,

Eden forsaken by forked tongue 

and a rogue hunger.

It may be a gleaming 

love heart, or an anatomical heart, 

crisp and beating beneath 

the flesh. Its seeds could hold

vernal promise in manifold;

swap fodder for a soul; 

or six-month holiday 

in Hades’s underground disco.

This is the world

that surrounds me,

where every solid 

piece of matter 

becomes mind-shattered

into a bewilderment

of possibility. 

When I pause too long 

on the footpath, 

it may be that 

I’m seeking the lark 

whose sweet birdsong

trills about dawn 

breaching the dark,

or it may be that 

a car is now driving 

down the road and how 

can I know, truly know, 

it won’t suddenly 

swerve into me. 

I can feel the impact

at night, my body shaken

and breath taken by dreams. 

You’ve seen the news:

it all seems so grim. 

I believe in God, of course,

but how can I trust him?