I found God,
sitting on a hill of feathery sand
in a foreign land.
Noticed the sky was following Him;
granite-pink ground and His black hair.
Of course, I asked Him what was wrong,
licking my lips,
yearning for His
flashing of eyes.
Only He sat so idle now,
rubbing ink on His wounds.
Yesterday they were bleeding
over His astral thighs,
Exquisite sharp features pressed,
sweltering against His palms;
the palms swinging erotic at the sky,
oh, that is why it comes,