The holy kick in the ass,
the lie of the asp--
no one ever said it would
be believeable.
These are things you can't
make up-- no fairies, only dust.
If your day was severing, a rip
that can't be sewn--you can
talk to him, you know. Drink
the wine, he's on the wall, now
the ceiling--its hard to keep
track of God. Trace his lips
and feel the rough of comfort,
the drape of mercy.
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