Half of them will laugh

I’ll stop writing about god when it stops loving me,
when I stop picking voices
and pushing them into
rocks and things, then
into me

or portraits labored on
of old men, atop the
stills of strange naked cranes
with breasts and limbs that
clot up the sun until spit
drips down and doe eyes run

when the crowds come
to get spooked at the site of ruins,
they, gaping at a glyph;
but say haunted and
half of them will laugh.


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