I
When I am dead,
head emptied of all electrics
and other tricks that life teaches,
to what far beaches will the current flow?
Will I know God
if ever we meet
in this street or the next,
by some Aramaic text
embroidered in robes
that fold up time and space?
Or does he just dictate the pace
of yellow trams
travelling the Damrak,
rumbling the faith
beneath the track?