Scale

The true sage would try to guide
The god that can’t show up once,

Much less twice, the god that can’t
Fill the cup, rinse the bowl, dish

Out the blood of the husked pod
From the shell, from the skull’s vault.

Plates and tiles roof the long rows
Of the town, the split-tongued snake

That cuts through the green park’s grass.
A snake’s skin makes a fine ghost.

One day, the folks of this town
Will have split its walls, moved on,

And then a true sage may guide
God to move back through hulled skin.

How do we weigh the gift now,
When it could kill us still, when

We can’t love it yet, can’t live
In a null for lone selves? Wait.