We hold poems
Like tiny hands,
Reaching up to pull God down,
One hand after the other,
Endlessly
Grasping,
Glorifying our existence
By shaming our downfall.

Yet, these hands do not see the hand that
Dismisses,
The hand that points outward within,
The hand whose mercy
Must be fear,
Putting us in our place
As definite and temporal,
As the scrubbers of his golden feet,
Shinier with each polishing.

Trembling before him
I tug at his robe
Begging him not to let me fall,
For surely at this height I will fall straight
Through.