On Reading A Book Of Mystic Writings Poem by Glen Kappy

My God
confronted with things about you
I have never seen nor may not ever see
I take stock of what I know:

That there's no end to knowing you
but I would lie to say that I know nothing.

That I'm convinced—but cannot prove—
it was you who told me I was home.

That all these years since then
there's been an inside job—
my heart's been going soft
so I am crying more and more
and tasting people from the inside out
and seeing so much beauty
it is hardly wonderfully bearable.

That over and over I have been revived
by dreams by songs by people
and I believe—but cannot prove—
that you are the subversive source beneath them all
who likes to do such things the way that nature
multiplies and reinvents herself
so we are overwhelmed.

That if all this has nothing to do with you—
which I can never prove—there still remains my gratefulness.