You descend into the world, God.
You arrive and imagine
that you are slyer than islands,
wiser than glass.
You bring
silk made to measure for my darkness.
You pry into my joints
— set inexpertly. From my body something
has leapt out, vanished, vapourised.
Through your curiosity
I have lost my mind.
Now I am one of my modes: storm, blizzard
and some other airy instincts.
I cannot fit into a myth.
But it will do,
you contain me,
I cover your face.
You give me noble masks.
You think I will accept
tact, tango, tulle — an elegant balance.
Be careful, Lord.
Do not grow your roots inside me.
I do not want such a pompous,
such a plush death.
Remove the climate from me,
perhaps I should
be a bird.
Touch me with ice,
perhaps I should
be the herbarium of the Universe.
Be careful, Lord.
