When I close my eyes I see god: a sacred linen
In earthen greens and reddish browns and creamy neutrals.
The folded fabric billows forward on the clothesline.
Endless folds, soft and sturdy, draped over my bed.

If I, if I, if I ever tell you that I met God
You should, you should, you should know that I'm telling you the truth.

Amidst the folds a hand emerges tracing patterns
Onto my shoulder-blade, a sigil being crafted.
A light that sears and burns and tears me up comes forward.
The hand inserts itself into a darkened cavity.

If I, if I, if I ever tell you that I met God
You should, you should, you should know that I'm telling you the truth.

The cause of smallish death I speak tongues to get closer.
Filled beyond what I thought possible with your grace.
Eyes rolled back leaving this earthly plane for a moment.
I returned inspired having tasted your divinity.

If I, if I, if I ever tell you that I met God
You should, you should, you should know that I'm telling you the truth.