Liturgy of nowhere here

Be there a god, it is beneath the last barrow 

That lingers at the back. 

Be there a god, let it crawl underneath my childhood scabs 

From climbing trees, let it drink and eat 

The food I could not fix, let it 

Peer review my last homework on bees, let it be as 

French cinema posters like to be, like scraps of paper 

Swallowed by the eastern wind, 

Let it be like a karaoke singer, 

Like a reverb on a guitar, like gloves, like pure earthen leather, 

Like hands on the neck to the hands 

On the wrists measuring an ancient form of mathematics - 

That hollow drum, 

De dum, 

The heart is an echo in the skin. A pulse, a whisper, 

The needle, a dream. Be there the god, it trails mud 

In my bedroom and leaves bottles by the bin. 

It is a leaky firefly that leaves a recipe 

On lead whenever I shade the lights, 

And to look straight into the eyes of this god, 

I fish out my eclipse glasses lest I brand the 

Surface of mein augen in silver string. 

Crossing the red oceans, 

The waves freeze to patterns of salt and 

A god is found like a painting of the mona lisa 

On some strange northern beach, 

Made as if to compose the same amount of sand 

I would bury an idea in, if I could ever 

Force down despair with the slip of 

Sanitized hands.