They Will Sew the Blue Sail

God | Elizabeth Robinson

was a misapprehension

that would not go away,

a bright fabric bleached to nothing

then by light


Was their many tales,

their hands, the only

means by which they were allowed

to touch.  Depth

of careworn, care, the

confusion of love.  Their

ruined limbs blackened with frostbite,

the cysts that brought, at least, color

to their faces.  God,

their gestures.  God among them,

the surreptitious squeeze

of fingers, blown

kisses, the innocent dreaming

what it would be to be grown up:

To have clean socks.  To be God.

To have a birthday.