Monday, April 1, 2013

Oral mother sky parable

The cloud looks like dry ice over the moon,
and this you say is your proof God is a tweed-
suited mourner with a pinwheel hat. Well, fine,
I'll say.
Someone better tell Him to wise
up.
Now the cloud
slips,
the moon
nude.
And you say, That
ain't no man's silver
tit.

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