If the ceilings dripped
liquid metal
and the scratchy rose-print sheets
bit out for our bodies,
we wouldn't know a thing.

If God jumped into bed
and tried to cram in between us,
there wouldn't be enough room.

In the deep night,
all the stars could come down shattering into knife light,
It would be perfect.

All the asteroids
could warp the earth into a bowl
of milk, and splotch
the solar system into a giant cow,
but we could not join in the teet-mashing mayhem;
there's nothing pure here,
and our fingers hunger for bad places,
instead of ushering in the good.

I do not know what we will do,
but the world is falling apart.