i.
god sits
on the earth,
footstool made
throne.
pays mind
to gravity
or suffering
or history,
they guess.
and no one
listens,
wrists thrown
witless toward
the end of
days.
no trace
of divinity's
face.
ii.
from his stubble
floods a new
chalice.
stabbing at the moon
with hate,
singing doom
as a prayer.
the tune
fades away,
gashes streaming
like rivers,
every bay
stained.
one taste
of divinity
slays.