I write about god
and about their intangible bod
about what I certainly don’t know—
well enough to take a bow,
aim at the heavens,
counting down from 1000 in sevens,
and shoot.
The sun bursts in soot
fire immediately quenched;
their gut is wrenched
with the pull of a child
too determined to be let out of the wild.

Who is god? This is what I don’t care about.
Instead the concept of them— do they have a snout?
A pleasure for blood, or a porcelain mask
skin green or tan, these questions I’ll ask.
Do they hop from their palace
leaving their home & solace,
alone with their henchmen
like chicks to a hen?
Do they sing their songs,
like roosters would all dawn long,
or do they weep,
sane and ridden with sleep?

Despite not being religious;

I worship her
I call her sir.
I stand and I clap,
their wings flitter and flap,
and your halo blinds me.
In the midst of hope; I cannot see.