Monday, September 19, 2011

God


One daily task,
which he meets admirably,
is to populate the world.

He puffs his pipe
to summon up and breed
into and through its swirled

grey tendril-fumes
another bloom of progeny –
another panoply unfurled

into the void –
which doesn’t last. But part
of it will soon have squirreled

back to the heart
of things and feed the blast
inside his pipe bowl: cloak

blank space again
to stoke, evoke in floating ash
another Word Made Smoke.





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