God named me a crow, and cautioned me to write, “You are too calloused to listed to My statement,” speaking for the rare, distant, sobering Earth

inside the dirt of Autumn James where figures malleable unto Joins-town flight response
like peckered right-wing sailors sing the gospel and preach of inadequate weddings,
shortly after taking flight the groomsmen take shadows upon yourself like danger
forgetting we let rotten leaves be our nature, our neighbors to joy and intoxication
just let the gods you worship take you to Peking to explore the social life, knittingly,
not knowing the former squadrons or tales of crypts’s hideaways where figures roast

now is the knotting hour, letting appraisals sing God is here, God is everywhere
singing in the hushes of your mind, where you will not listen, or treat respectfully,
never to grace goes God, but to your fantasy illusion of a creator at a distance,
so sings God of you, and your poison leaves neighbors, never defaulting to a practice
of low squabbles, early nocturnal joys, and the presence of mind to bring My voice out
into the open dares the sparing rod that never did exist, never worshiped or adored,
and never did I need these things from you or your calloused aunts and uncles,
or your parting ways, dancing on elbows, allergic to the interpretation, that tide does not flow
and the greenery that marked the last faucet was allowed to drip like My message:

that you never listen, are never quaint, and never did you cast a spell to see My image,
for I only shout in the wild where a select few can see Me shine, and I will talk to them
while your partitioned sailors claim to the know the truth worth dying for, worth meaningless borders
and cosmic haunts that never make your way or accustom you to the sounds of My lungs,
now on Grand St and Peach Blvd, from 9 to 5, a door-buster sale on hailing armies to My might