Invocation

I have never written a poem to God.
Father of verse, we climbed those secret nights
twitching, sighing, (on) high...
you scratched your beard and my pen
exploded.
Midnight blew by obscured by leaves
as we tried to stay awake.
It was easier to dream
with wine in our cups.

God - allow me to be filled.
Heaven is a white house with narrow stairs.
When I try to find that place again
I do not know the address,
remember,
you always showed me the way.