The con men were catcalling from the mountaintops

and dropping serotonin dipped in cheap gold

that they called the color of the sun. 

Underneath were we, buried deep in relics and bribes, 
sitting eye-level with the sea
where walls of salt hit our eyes.

I saw God on a street corner begging for change

and drawing chalk veins on the concrete,
whispering, “Let them grow.” 

There are types of us: lustful, proud--
mankind made of dilated pupils

that shrink for the sun in desks by tall windows.