Kierkegaard

Two catbirds call in rain

Cup of coffee in hand

Dog pleased with himself

& books on a table

With accumulated

Natterings—Kierkegaard

Especially, all that desire

For a God

Of the mind

I think

There was no God

In his Danish shoes

No God

In the silver birches

& when he lit a fire

It was simply a fire

So much pressure

On the written word

Like a child’s game—

You know

The one where

Walking

Your footfalls must be perfect

Or someone dies