my neighbor Shiva
My neighbor owes
a lot of people: Visa,
MasterCard, the electric company—
the notice sits in the door shrunken
down on itself like the end
of the world approaches silent,
unassuming until we all crumple
up and land in the trash...
Beetles chew the edges into neon
snowflake lace; my neighbor
could stand on street corners
hawking handicrafts by the insects
that assume squatters' rights
in his apartment where the water
heater looms like a centerpiece,
unprotected by closet or door.
The bugs worship it, I imagine,
in the fetid dark when I lie
twisted, a sacrifice entwined
in sweaty sheets, naked if not
virgin—I hear the constant
whir, the ecstatic heartbeat
of dusty wing before the god
machine (the gas is off).
But the god still lives: a remnant
of him, my neighbor, who left
his life ready to be filled, who left
a $5000 hole in the fabric
of reality, the universe itself,
but when you get right down
to it the universe is really made
of bugs—they patch the cracks.
A classy god, he takes no value
from their work but an appreciation
of devotion: all those holes,
those webs, those lacy patterns
in which he hides encrypted
like cross or star—the apartment
turns to temple, holds his breath
and debt enshrined, the Final Word.