Worship
Small gods die easily.
They nestle in pockets, or shoes
left out on the porch
to dry. A wrong turn
in the conversation, a hand
shoved into a garment,
steering out from the drive
onto the morning's black ice
spell and they are squashed
without blood, without
complaint. I had a whole
collection, once.
They couldn't throw
thunderbolts from the shelf
over my bed, nor
sport heavenly beards
that tickled me to sleep
but they were good
listeners. Nodded
in agreement. Spoke Greek
between themselves.
Knut Mork Skagen, Trondheim, 16. Nov 2005
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