for example; crosswords, metaphysics,
and riddles, doodles, higher math, all else
that shows delight in order without end;
these are the ways we imitate the God,
for whom creation’s always recreation.
But art aspires—art is only human.
Not that there’s something wrong with being human.
We sometimes think so, and use metaphysics
to demonstrate some flaw in our creation,
as if our proper home lies somewhere else,
and we, destined to be (or be with) God.
We cannot bear the thought that we may end.
But life is not our asset to defend.
The mental burden borne of being human—
that we possess the foresight of a god,
only to know we die, and find our physics
has scried the desolation of all else—
does not entitle us to judge creation
as if we knew its worth. We know creation
only as life gives us the chance. We end
(and good thing, too—all would be worthless else),
but not before we find that to be human
is to be living proof beyond dead physics
of something worthy of (not proof of) God.
And what is it we mean when we say “God”?
Not merely the brute fountain of creation,
not merely a foundation for our physics,
but something we imagine without end,
itself imagining itself a human,
and from this dream proceeding to all else.
And now, let us imagine something else.
Something as worthy to be called a god,
without this quaint obsession with the human.
Something which takes such joy in all creation
that nothing can be taken for its end.
Its current game involves the laws of physics—
it plays as human—and everything else.
Beyond all metaphysics, merely God:
wild Love that makes creation its own end.
Elijah Perseus Blumov is the host of the poetry analysis podcast Versecraft and translations editor at Literary Matters. His work has appeared in Birmingham Poetry Review, Light, Think Journal, Alabama Literary Review, and other publications. He lives in Chicago.
Photo by Bozhin Karaivanov on Unsplash
