under drying skies, north,
passing fields
the summer has been too wet
to turn brown,
i wait for God
to appear, for poems to rise
like mists, for some sort
of ever

that doesn’t sting.
croon to me like a wild road,
sunlight spider-webbing
across a cracked windshield
across strange arms
across a morning we can all afford
to spend and live
and live.

bitter theology

kicked out of bed
by a god i
don’t even believe in;
there was no room left
at the inn
between you and your righteousness

you unwound the warmth from your legs
and gave me your back,
tacitly damning me to hell
for refusing your blessings,
for denying i had anything to confess,

so instead i wrapped myself
in a blanket and the moonlight
poured in by the window
insistingly left open,
curled into a ball
of affronted atheism
on the couch.

[3 hours later,
when i was still awake
and you were waking,
dressing yourself in armor
for the day’s assaults,
you picked up your keys without turning the lights on,
you left without goodbye
but with me wounded,
eyes screwed up
against a truth that
such a little thing
as God
could come so far between us.]