God is in the world itself,
scattered amongst the doom
and in the rising warmth of sun,
in ground as fine as dust
as something to behold
when there’s nothing really
there at all, as a myth to
hold close, even unto death.
In the rising and the falling
this God thing undefined
seems to come unrelenting
and then go and die in the
tears that follow loss and
the scientist’s eye and the
axiomatic turn that waits to
tear God asunder from the breach.
There is nothing in the universe
but the stuff itself as appearance
without a cause, as its own god
unfolding and becoming what
it will; and if there is more,
which well might be, then
what do I care?
is not the question (it never was),
for the question is what and how it
shalt appear in the diverse forms
that fit the human and the Fall.