let’s put it off for another day,

this poetry — i heard it grows like cells,

exponentially, so if i walk away, what

will it become eventually, if not something

with a mind of its own to make its

meaning unique to its problems? —

in twenty years, the poem will speak

for itself, being of a heightened register

for collecting dust might age it well

like barrels of whiskey or the ceiling

of the sistine chapel which darkened

over the days to show us that, really,

jesus wasn’t white (of course the cleaning

was one of the biggest projects

of our parents’ time, to white-wash God)

but i’m here to say, though it’s been some

years, michelangelo had gotten it wrong,

that he’d craned his neck for so long

just for a woman he’d likely view as weak

to advise a different initial pigment

so maybe she would feel

compelled to believe