I don’t know the particulars
but I’m going to have to leave
this world one day, the only one
I ever remember knowing;
leave behind everyone
and everything I hold dear
because the sea is (after all) cardboard
and the moon is made of paper.
I’m not talking about death’s overtaking
but as a clear-eyed, deep-breath resolution.
Because if I and Love are eternal,
my affections and their objects (like myself)
are but pale, irresolvable reflections.
And to reach beyond the facade I must one day
unhand voluntarily their brief, illusory
solace and choose God instead.
O child of God, repeating the mystic promises,
you hover constantly near the edge of the abyss.