Rewrite God’s poems until the mob in us froths at the mouth.

What is it you cannot stand to live with any longer? Toss it in

what he called my crab consciousness, merely his description for my either avoiding or digging a hole

With great poetry God is not only in the details, but in the details of the details.

It’s time to strip the altar. Time to hollow

I can sit at your feet, and feel the troubled waters of my body still