poem

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?