I belong to the Church of Goethe,
where on the sabbath we
remove our nitrile gloves
and snatch up our means and trends and hypothesis
to rinse them with metaphor.
coming always hungry, we feast on leavened conclusions
and look to the sky through many a lens--
having traded brushes for pens, pens for brushes
to paint and compute a new sort of hymn
and not in unison, but in harmony
sing: this is religion.