We all want to be joined in holy
metonymy. You are a part of me, we want
God to say, that stands for the whole of me.
Instead of immanent, just say man.
Instead of wishbone, just say wish.

Sound out the word, and we are all God’s
onomatopoeia. Gaga comes from God mad:
Coo, coo at the one you love, madman,
across the carousel of the cosmos,
these painted horses circling the sun.

We are all first drafts, shy in public
and rhythmically iffy. We are all
orphan lines yearning to become
couplets, willing to rhyme slant
if that means we don’t have to be alone.

We are all written to be read
aloud by the light of a bay window,
out of earshot of the guns and slogans.
Every amnion is an epithalamion,
every kenning is a wedding.

The king of heaven wears a crown of sonnets.
We are all his serifs, we are all winged words,
my sister sestinas, my brother odes.
Don’t worry about the ending. We’ve gotten
an acceptance. He knows us by heart.