23 toward the Omer

gevurah shebnetzach

My left hand blocks the water on its way from the green plastic can to the potting soil, and I rely on it

to do its job imperfectly, which means I must be misdefining either the job or perfection or maybe both. Time keeps on slippin’,

slippin’, slippin’, into the future, my mind sings in my dad’s voice in the name of the Steve Miller Band. Yes, God says;

I found out quickly that when My hand is outstretched there’s some space between the fingers. Would you rather it some other way?

No, I say. I think maybe that’s how the world still exists, which maybe means I should thank you for doing your job

so imperfectly. I think you’re misdefining either the job or perfection or maybe both, God says. So you’re finally forgiving yourself? I say.

Amphibians really got it right, God deflects, with the webbing. But Pharaoh didn’t learn the lesson. It was a little opaque, I say.

I close my eyes. I open my eyes. No layer of film, just a season for everything. My system regulates. Four colors can

be next to each other on a map, I dream of telling my middle school math teacher, if you include the fourth axis.