it wasn’t on purpose. when the boy swears god

loves me i think i have not even met the guy

but sure, i’d like to, so this is how i’ll spend

the impossible day, captive in a beater driving

down west market as he says look at all of this

gestures to a strip mall and tell me you don’t

believe in a creator


consider superglue. unintended headway penicillin

dynamite coca-cola champagne! wilhelm channels

a mystery ray and calls it x, not divine. a sparkling

current propels atom through atom, green disaster

blaze which deems the flesh extraneous, and the light

understands now. the broken particles, imagined,

dominated, even the intimacy too close as ghosts

of orderly black appear revealing what before

we’d had to bleed to know. sorry, sorry, what

had he been trying to do, again


i shouldn’t have been so hard on the strip mall. what

am i asking of it? it’s the point, anyway, that there’s sin

and miracle nothing else, and hey, i clock a robin folding

branches into the o’s of the sign on goodwill, where inside

someone buys a stranger’s blood-red confession

dress. i want the boy to define accident. then mistake.

for fun he’d rally creation and discovery, but look, i’d say,

don’t you feel it, when the sun casts shadows across

the ugliest parts of you, the senselessness, the stumbling,

our tipsy sleepwalk into ourselves, in the same instant

formed and found, and i blink the wet eyes that happen

to bore down to the marrow, looking for god, and discover

two-hundred off-white flecks of rubble, of what the earth

built with what was left of heaven.