Any day soon the sudden pictures I tip into the linguistic eye,

images I print having litho-intense surface,

a man with a woman, he naked with her beside

a tree its bark clothes. Look, a ginger money

spider climbing. God is now. The vicar

who likes fingers of toast raises Him to congregated eyes.

And the rabbi, heated to a pitch of hatred, being afraid,

I also am a Jew, hating and afraid,

they each raise Him, the universe’s tenderest heart,

to eyes forsaken in and enduring midsummer radiance.

It hurts, and it is true it will not cease.

In what phase of this will I be dying into your creation?