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.