God gets heavy-handed with his realm when what he loves
Breaks open. It might have been an accident, but as he flicked his
Paper-football sun in between the narrow concrete streets to watch it
Bounce on and off the mirrors we have built around us like a box,
Its cardboard body missed a turn and we were left without a light
To watch the rest burn. From this great rip in the metropolis, out pours
The world like a tearing bag of fish scales torn from the body of a girl—
Oyster sky, a fire dying; its pearl a study in kaleidoscopes broken open
And how tar turns to stars in the spreading gasoline. The sky at night
slits through these widening cracks in the city and through them
His eyes pour. And pour. And pour.