The obverse one, welcomed raucously but, honestly, aptly at the ceremony gates, who approaches in wide, coy strides the illumined inner courtyard where, of course, god is sitting and smiling politely, reminds me of you in your by and by untethered mix of self-effacing irony and fantasy that, from without, is always construed as faithful and austere love of life. Isn’t that mad? In my own unhurried way I begin to notice the tassels

loosed from the banners and the sculptures adorning the floats, in an unexpectedly strong wind unnerving all of us, when, oddly enough, a subtle spark of imprecision is observed in god’s posture. Maybe that was part of my imagination, but wouldn’t that be crucial to the picture? The obverse one slights the introduction, putting up in the form of a patient half-smile powerful defenses. No one can tell that he’s almost apoplectic, least of all myself who, just like you can be,

is so ready to believe in the truth conveyed by the face. Only when god gestures towards the obverse one, saying to his ministers something inaudible do the smiling lips part, revealing his mythological teeth. Ostensibly the barrier between the prophet and his father weakens, maybe it would admit a tender word or two. I thought as much of us and was I wrong? The ministers relay the command, covered mouths to cupped ears, which clears the gangway ascending

the otherwise thronged estrade. But who could have known that god himself would be the one to rise from where he sat to walk the gangway down? Those steps. Only the fairest trace of concomitance, as if his whole gait was just a piercing play of the eyes. At this the obverse one drops the pretense of a smile and lets his muscled limbs begin to shiver with adrenaline. I see your nimble feet so vividly, your tremulous laugh attends the battle.