to cull the future i want, i try 
to hold your tail, attempting 
control, more a wish for you 
to agree on what will happen 
inside you, or could.
so consent, i look for consent 
with you. so hope’s nudge, 
prayer’s evidence to dam
your universe wide river 
in favor of what seems good 
in my personal opinion. at times, 
my prayers sound like propaganda, 
orange birds flying out my mouth 
chirping like novels when they fly
looking for God’s door, 
ever looking, long flung satellites 
i hope to crash into heaven

                            is that where you are? 

                                                        does that make you God?

                                         whose mercy is it anyway? 

             if Time is the body of all 
                         then God is movement

                                   No

                                     if Time is movement unceasing
                          then God is purpose within chaos 

              No 

              if Time is a field
                           then God is the will to farm, the need to eat, the locusts, the lightning

                                                         Closer

                          if Time is who watches the mountains move
God is the distance between where the mountain was and is 

                             No

if Time is possibility
God is decision, no,
is surrender

                         if Time happens
                                     God is detail

                                                 if Time is random
                                     God is a hunger for pattern

                 if Time kills God does too

                 if Time comes for us all

                              God is who i begged to reason with her

unfortunately, i can’t plan the past 
nor correct its design, can’t blueprint 
a then, only trace my moves further 
into your shape i can’t sound. 
the past, just when i’ve dealt with it
there’s more of it to sort. thought 
i had you by the tail. thought i could 
find the head. thought i was the hunter
but here i am, in your belly, killed 
yet continuing. thought it was a field. R
an, planted mint, made love in the grass 
in the belly of the past, warm milk on my lips 
drying out of tense. back then, Time 
felt reigned ahead of us. i thought i rode it. 
it was in my hand. but this leather 
yanks my head – 

               these boots kicked into my side – 

                                                    the grass in my mouth –

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