We all want to be joined in holy metonymy. You are a part of me, we want God to say, that stands for the whole of me. Instead of immanent, just say man. Instead of wishbone, just say wish.

Sound out the word, and we are all God’s onomatopoeia. Gaga comes from God mad: Coo, coo at the one you love, madman, across the carousel of the cosmos, these painted horses circling the sun.

We are all first drafts, shy in public and rhythmically iffy. We are all orphan lines yearning to become couplets, willing to rhyme slant if that means we don’t have to be alone.

We are all written to be read aloud by the light of a bay window, out of earshot of the guns and slogans. Every amnion is an epithalamion, every kenning is a wedding.

The king of heaven wears a crown of sonnets. We are all his serifs, we are all winged words, my sister sestinas, my brother odes. Don’t worry about the ending. We’ve gotten an acceptance. He knows us by heart.