Lapping corbel hearts in the milk and the ashes

I thought you and I could go somewhere,
“oh, boy,” said God, truly beside Himself –
acting like I was an inferno of blankspots,
knowing I would not strum returned wild
and unaccounted for rain, tepid pouring
milk, like lashes on fractured face bones,
God’s drowning ashes – steam lightening
for now, unobsessed, unaccounted for,
like promises I make to see Her love through –
waking bones in our ad-hoc stage making

this garden does not see God as a functionary,
but converts the making of Her to sand feet,…
God wants “in peril” included, somewhere,
to break up the couplet or divine rain and stem
lighting the pass, “as long as you do not try to
include the word ‘tort’ as in reference” to God,
She says, swearing at ‘me’ in the morning stamp