One story
up, under a roof,
under a perfect yellow moon,
I wait.
I watch oxygen expand
into greatness.
Midnight sleeps an ear ache away
from me snoring.
Oxygen starts its engine, then
shuts off again.
God grows in a cradle like a
ghost plant, a living reminder
of what is yet to be dead.
One story
below me, kids are
throwing stones.
An eye for an eye,
till war takes them both.
When tonight catches up, it will
pluck spots from the day until
we sing the song of
the crickets.
I will wait for God to grow
out of his cradle, strike a match
against conscience and finally,
rename me.
