Envision the numeral’s
inner slope, curved
like a cupped palm. See how you could
rest there, curled
within its elongated
oval. My palm
holds emptiness now, waving
good-bye or hello. I would rather
God slide between the limits
of lifeline and heartline, twin crevices
pulled together then away, the curve
of zero swooping up again.
Perhaps God is dissolved
in the black ink stretched
into a cipher, or God is
the emptiness bounded by zero’s arcs,
or the space exceeding a digit’s place,
compressing presence into the blank welcome
we’ve named nothing.