wreckage in the flatland below


wreckage debris lain in
blocks and girders long, dusts of
cements settled upon

… and we didn’t discuss it

a glass window in a trailer
looked out upon the wreckage and
God sat up there.   I finally

tatted on the pane glass

“Lord, my credibility has no value
and my self is questionable. But I feel
I have cleaned up the all-little cracks that
foreshadowed this
    ALONE, and now years gone by.
please say that I can stand reasonably
and decent, humble, and yet expect her to do her
    finally, that it will again stand
and it will smell like her and…” God interrupted: ‘You’re
being a bit melodramatic there, aren’t you boy!’

And I said, “Dude?!” At that point God
ran his hand through the pane glass
and smacked his open palm hand flat into
the fore-nose of my face, leaving it ugly
like the wreckage in the flatland below


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