O god of

houseflies & air, of these bleached
strands, the bedsheets pulled tight,

of panes, grit, breakfast foods,
ash & globe, molecule & self-deception,

of PCR & CVS, of if and then,
of fractal as factual, of and and/or

of or and/or of or of and, I am
tired, Lord, and I have poured

myself a cup of tea so large, Lord,
that I could drown myself in it

if I had a mind to drown myself,
but do I, Lord, and don’t I,

and wouldn’t I, and won’t I?
I wouldn’t and won’t, Lord,

though I am not without want.
Am wanton, and rank. Tho lank.

It’s been years since you made me
lie down in green pastures.

Still the impression of the blades
of grass on my face; still the rod & oil;

fish & fin; sunlit; sundrenched;
son of a gun. And what do you maketh

of me now, what might I maketh
of the body in this chair? What shall

be anointed but the word? My love
language, Lord, is language,

is languishing, is lavish in its
lamentations, in its lostness

somewhat found. I kiss the ground.
I will have been. I once was.

I tend to tense. Present, present.
What have we here? O god of

small sequences of phonemes,
let me not utter in isolation,

but as the skydiver & sycamore,
let me be, lastly, longwinded.