Theodicy in Parentheses
How sad God was, and dare I say, resigned. Wind fell. Sand fell, and the blue night, an absent shade now, a broken memory of sky. His fingers sank through clay and clay rose, folding over like a tide. This is called giving up, or it is called love. He spat on his hands, cleaned them, called a boy alto from a distant cloud, newly dead, someone to hear his defense and sing it back.