for all (without saying) clams
that do not clam — the inkless
squid — jetting along (the sand
without god) and never
searching,  i beg   (quietly)
you steam (the frying leaves us
less than we should be
and every clam is thusly
offended). the almighty
is salt, not water. the air
is irrelevant, but the oxygen
is still (like the water) everything
which god (and which un-god)
makes the stones harder
(or not at all hard, depending
how they strike the body) is
the mystery — believe what you will
or won’t were all decide
(or none of us do because, god
and things like god are brutish
in the begging) find a star
pick it, better than you pick
your knows and know not what
it means. light (she flies faster
than god) and dark (she waits
without feet) and the twi-might
resting on the lines “yes sure”
and “no, god NO!” heaven
is not the clam-ity or the sand
the madness of punctuation or
the poem. heaven — that is you
long-haired and forgetting
how i loved you best as i sank
alone (god i love you. god…)and
hoping sex or something like it
might be religion as i died another
little death. alleluia please