November 29, 2016 · poetry

On God

We know we want to live
unmolested, but
the truth is we’re ashamed,
hiding and skulking in scat
while the world rattles by,
holding you secret down in our bellies,

something we'd seriously
rather not talk about

a disgusting agora of fear,
a hissing entrail of shame.

I can’t figure out what’s wrong.
God, help me. I am a twinge
in the setting sun.

I can’t see the sky, just a
hungry band of deer
windtorn and bare,
fur like a powdered-sugar coating
gone when the next wind comes.

Soon we'll be painting
a leafblower in bloom
limoncello over the water
some green haze of oil, a
lackadaisical yellow
smudge against the heavens.
You want to talk to me,
but I don’t even know who you are.

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