God

by Adam Cornford

is a great primitive wasp
grandmother to ant-demons
and seraphic artisans of honey
she who crawls and leans
with a dancer’s delicacy
over the concentric crystalline
hyperspheres of reality

with compound-possibility eyes

and elongate metallic body
her abdomen sharp as a pen-nib
is charged with indelible ink
the tiny silvery eggs
she injects into our brains
we the ape-worms almost
as soon as we are born

So grows in each one of us

a sinuous sentence of reflections
that eats its way through leaving
its branching syntax tunnels
it devours in the proper sequence
the red lumps of the passions
until the drawn-out collapse
of the wrinkled and vacated skin

and the new imago emerges

from the mouth unfolding immense
wings transparently veined
with recursive awareness of selves
She pauses in silence before
flying gracefully away
toward the next universe over
its mind-flowers alight without

the cannibal mirror of words

for Bryan Serba—another crazy with the same notion
(English version by the author)