Efficacy comes in guises:
prayer, the beating of hearts.
Symbiosis is a sin
(in some settings) and yet,
we all look up when it rains.
I too like God in small doses,
the drip drip drip
of the morphine drip, the priest
with eyes rolling white.
But how will we invoke heaven
after they cure cancer,
when no one turns ugly
(when cosmetics finally work)?
I tell you, we should never arrive:
asymptosis is our only salvation,
the long crawl up the tiered waterfall,
the swift movement
beyond insect ways:
our yearning to ropetrick
our way to heaven;
without it, we are only
daft squirrels in winter,
our small hoards small museums
kept by addled descendents, worshipped
by labels, the occasional
postcard (shot into space)
for aliens.
© 2003 Jody Azzouni