You mistake me for a believer in things.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
That’s wrong.
All things are right next to the truth.
All things now and forever reside in immediate truth.
Belief itself is obliterated by truth and light.
Turn on the lights.
Abre los ojos.
And belief vanishes like a demon in a bad dream.

It’s not that you mistake me for caring.
Because my steps are a constant caring.
My progression an accumulation of thanks.

You assume I worship something, and I would if it were possible.
And I suppose I do.
The silliest things being the altars and idols.
An early bird piping away.
The dog pretending to sneeze as if in conversation.
As if ending an argument.
A hundred different magentas in a hundred ice plant flowers.
Humans using wordplay as punchlines.

A small surprise at waking once more.
Dreams the night before a game of marbles.
And stop with the sun and moon and stars.
There’s endless worship there.
Perhaps more perplexity.

Never believer, small thing perceiver.
A dying old man.
Woop and wharf weaver.