by Wade Linebaugh
are the final nights of spring. A man
feels God under the hot stars,
when he must take fistfuls of grass just to stay
The man and God climb a stranger’s stoop. we
sit like bums
on the concrete.
God looks at him (me). Says: let’s
get the fuck outta this town, man, go
and watch the hippies dose.
we (both of me) just stare
this is how God deals with the inevitability
Creating creation got boring
he says to him
two minutes after it was done. Why
don’t we go down south
wake up buried in snow wishing
our lips were still pink?
You and me, he says, let’s drink
it in: dirty wet and sweet
like when you finally saw that windmill, that
big flat valley and those
I was there,
and I dug it.