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?


For existence

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.