Cautious Steps

I return to writing these poems
not knowing what words mean;
written in journals decades old
or unveiling themselves new
on even brighter screens.

I do know that I disagree
with the notion that birth
is an exile from some
culminating experience
meant to last into the infinite.

Is G*d any less of a G*d
after the death of anyone?

Or, do the dance steps of the G*ds
become more frenzied as a birth nears?

I pause in my walk and count
those tender sounds tapping out
the letters to the word
c-a-u-t-i-o-n.

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