A Working Divinity

Sky rests on a shallow veil of wax—
the moon pouring primordial memory

of one billion years across my home,
then–now.

With a river as a tongue,
God laps away our skins.

With tools we cannot know,
He chisels at our chests—

cracks the earth to warn us
to begin stocking caves with evidence of our need

to murder one another—

that our genetics must stretch
as a conspiracy of heat and water.