Kind of Okay with It

It’s the age
of kind of knowing:
As in, I kind of know
what a partridge is
a tree pose
a partial derivative.

I kind of know
combustion engines
(furious gluttony
turned to speed)
how to raise a child
how to repose.

It’s the age
of kind of feeling
the world finally has a shape.
As in, a body orifice
a leaf drift
a cave.

I’ve never converted
to nor from Christ,
having found it impossible
to enter or leave
my own body, its spirit-filled
Cavities.

We can poke holes
in anything, even ozone.
I’m okay with mutability.
I’m okay with conviction of sin.
I’m okay with the Body of Christ
broken for you. As it turns out,

it’s the age
of kind of being okay.
As in, okay with this moist body
this particulate mind.
I can kind of live with
the pieces the world is in.