I belong to the Church of Goethe,
where on the sabbath we
remove our nitrile gloves
and ****** 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.