Whitewash: Windows,
stray brushstrokes,
clumsy hairlines, air
and lead.
I say god has arms
like sticks. When he paints,
if he paints, he is bad
as me: Eyeing it.
Each brushstab, a fuck you
to the false-crisp
edginess of painter's tape.
I say god has arms
like my mother's.
My father could
break a goddamn pinoak
in half, the creases
in his fingers
full of bark,
the crease
in his brow
deepening:
What else can I say?
Today, trees
are frozen, emptied
of starling, of rustling.
Adding your comment: