How sad God was, 
and dare I say, resigned.

Wind fell. Sand fell,

and the blue night, 
an absent shade now,

a broken memory of sky.

His fingers sank through clay 
and clay rose, 

folding over like a tide.

This is called giving 
up, or it is called love.

He spat on his hands, 
cleaned them, called 

a boy alto from a distant cloud, 
newly dead, 

someone to hear his defense 
and sing it back.