God teases my ingrown heart,
with an angel,
with michigan great lake eyes,
the color,
of an allusion,
to the bible's,
holiest thought,
an old version of Leaves of Grass,
lays coughing at my side,
"I will read you when the time comes"
i whisper into the empty room,
of mirrors,
and cheap bottles of city wine,
a beetle,
and I,
contemplate eachother,
it,
scurries into an old pair of shoes,
that a ****** Indian ******,
traded me,
for words,
of beauty,
of dried mud.