Wednesday, March 23, 2011


The spade, and the dark dirt, and coils of graverope.
Where every move made, fist flung, even help held
out is wrong, wrong, wrong. There is always a better way, always
some one thing that proves (truth is one like our God) that the one
I am is: Not. If you were
not the God that calls things that are
not as though they are and thereby makes
things be, I would be