Dear God,
The trees on the lawn were drinking my air
                                                                       so I sought you out.
The last of the mice gnawed what grass remained 
                                                                                 from the drought.
And the sky was a bowl, was a skullfull of shreds—
(Why did you vanish?
                                     Do you wish me dead?)
 
—
 
My heart is a hive so the bees moved in.
                                                                  They shiver 
through my chambers, weird seraphim.
I’ve got birds in my head, 
                                           (their beaks are sharp),
and they call call call 
                                    when the sky goes dark, 
when the clouds are a wish, but no rain pours out,
 
—
 
when the moon rolls past and my eyes catch fire.
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