Like the blood pumping in my thigh’s spider veins
while consulting my scars, I believe
in critiquing devastation as well as bliss
and if God can't get that
then I don't want God’s likeness.
The way the light and the dark
green merge between the underside of the camellia
and the sky between each leaf, I think
of my Gran, how her brain
became caterpillar chewed foliage.
It's called branch dieback, or how
the runnels on leaves streak
like rivers and lightning.
Is the earth round because eyeballs are
or is it the other way around?
Blake’s grain of sand is my water bug
skimming a pond—the pond, both
natural and unnatural, the tension
nets each leg
to the surface's vast
cloudy glare.
