do you think he spoke, on the fifth day
before his mistake?
'what beauty, what boundless unerring awe
what great stroke of mighty ingenuity befalls me -‘
his tongue silenced by the sixth

and on the sixth day; man
so let it be written, so let it be done
crudely misspelt, an ink-blotted mess, peeking out from a strikethrough

was the seventh day spent in sleep
or in grief?
in all 6 stages of it, simultaneously?
how could he rest
knowing what his hands had done?

&
if we are made in his image
what ghastly beast sits in his mirror?
what horror portrays him
what stares back from the dark water of a lake?