Stay away from all the processed thoughts
in the cosmic grocery store,
for people no more know God than they know you.
Stay along the edge, where the fresh dirt gleams,
without the sweetness of your mother's voice
or your father's factory salt,
for what ferments inside you
can only rise so far.
It is not you, waiting
at the dome beyond the aisles,
a kind of sun, a kind of sky.
