God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.
Need is not quite belief.
I have been cut in two.
And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of us will shout, "My need is more desperate!" and I will eat you slowly with kisses even though the killer in you has gotten out.
All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.