One February morning, pause
between kitchen and dining room
to weep at Belle and Sebastian
singing about God. The cold is good
for maple syrup, makes sap run,
you aren’t sure how, or why this pretty pop
song makes you snivel and drip like a cut
twig. You’ve seen God on Bisson street,
God in a bicycle wheel. Update your status
with an ooze of sap, or pastoral postcard,
Scotland or Greece, some foreground
figures sitting, dark cherries in a bowl.
