Hell is easy: a blanket will do it
Under which, on hot nights infinite
Lay down a body like mine
And cover the feet closely, against its lifetime habit
– and that is all, my dear. An intolerable discomfort
Dilated to the size of the universe. So yes
A God that is the master of tortures is conceivable
A God in our own image, habit’s double agent
Who knows that bones crush, that skin is nothing
Against flame, ice, steel, the sharp edge.
But a God beyond our temptations is
A God we can’t imagine.
Only, we can abstract an inch
Beyond the grind and crush of those winged and walking generations –
Something skinless, needless, blessed.
But what would this God be up to?
What’s in it for him
With no root in any image or song?
This is truly a God for atheists.
Surely our sacrifices have not all been in vain?