god’s image has evolved.  at a certain point, you stop growing.  I lift with abandon from my mother’s back-and-forth with her orphaned single-mindedness.  harm comes to my child for some attention.  into poetry alone, the crow is ushered.  it cries unheard in a long take above the consoled baby.  I wave whatever like a shy prophet with a bad back.  you look for the spider while carrying its legs in a tissue.  one black hand is not my imagination.