The Many Deaths of God

 Just last night it was early summer
 as I stood, at home and deeply rooted,
 in a warm wheat field, net in hand.

 I was waiting for and eating words as
 they danced and whispered by on a
 dripping, pollen-loaded, musky breeze.

 I saw them coming from a distance in
 hoards - stormy, echo-leaved colonies -
 they were riding the silver crests of dusk.

 They only ever blew my way, onto my lips,
 when another one of God's infinite faces died
 somewhere - they are made of endless deaths.

 Here they are shuffled - sifted, stacked and
 sorted - then they are tailored and en-vased.
 They never last much longer than cut flowers.

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