Six Days

There was a hole called God's mouth.

Out of it poured darkness, his wet tongue.

Tucked against a cheek was light, degrees of lightness, sick white.

He spit it out hot.

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Heaven was a firmament, a dissection, a split from water.

Heaven was exhaled upwards.

A newly birthed thing from the folds of God's belly, streaming.

God buoyed Heaven with one lazy foot, toed its corners into place,

God let Heaven drip-dry.

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The dip of God's navel filled with water.

His dry skin, ruddy: unbroken soil.

His goose bumps: mountain ranges, seed pods.

Long straight hairs twisted into grasses and waved.

_________

God wrote an essay on layers, on bright segments.

God wrote line after line of light like a sharp knife.

God's light cut.

God's light scattered and stuck in the dark,

light edges he shook from his cramping hands.

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God had a sea fixation.

God wanted it to froth and multiply, salt-fission.

God wanted it to spill whales, fins and gills, blue-gray mottled creatures,

some of them meant to crawl out and suffer the sun.

And above the sea: feathers, hollow bones, black stones for eyes.

God loved the sky.

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His mirror between his feet, God traced the reflection.

God traced it into the dust, all careful curves and function.

He traced his reflection, and it came out opposite.

The beasts at his knee watched, mouths full, chewing.