For all the questions I can’t ask
God cuts me with a blade of grass
I imitate turmoil
God imitates interest
But there are no dollar signs in my doorway
Believe me, I have looked
And God checks behind me
Then God tells me, “It seems like there is nothing there”
I have imitated all the cowards of America
Still, there are no dollars in my caste
For all the questions I can’t ask
God cuts me with a blade of grass