If God has a sandbox then we are
the cat shit, buried beneath the granule
lies of a universe that dreams of beaches.
We are awaiting the blue plastic salvation
of a Toys-R-Us shovel. But the rain comes
instead and we melt. And we blend our
homely essences with dirt and sand and filth,
all those things that make God so great,
and we are lost. Our identities turned to
angels with sullied wings and balding heads.
Our souls seep into the terracotta hell of mud
that lurks beneath, six feet beneath, our tombs.
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