Play it, Sam

by Mathew Paust

Would the divine were meek,

a power sublime disinclined to meddle

to quell our crises,

preferring supplication, to be needed so completely one offers up self

for the touch of grace?

Would reason be in play,

a mutuality of sorts,

open invitation: you seek us out, we take you in,

succor's yours, your soul joins ours,

all in kind?

Would this be culling,

recruiting kindred spirits from the random multitude

with still the same old signs that point the way from primal

to live with love

or die?