what is

this morning, god is the sunlight seeping through a cracked window pane, playing patterns on top of already patterned walls.

he's the empty bottle of shiraz, lying naked and abused at my feet

a culprit

a victim

a life snuffed out in a single night

but with a destiny fulfilled.

he's the hearty voiced butcher singing out his sales in the market street below

clicking heels on cobblestone streets are his accompaniment,

a woman hestitantly brushing her eyes along his fares, glazing them with scrutiny,

his only audience.

he is my weathered fingers typing with careless ease

he is my neat eyebrows furrowed in perpetual unease

he's [the clock ticking away] saying hurry, don't be late

but then he's the cushion on the armchair, folding me within 

conforming to me

resting on me as i rest on him 

or so he states in his laws

making me wait till the last second melts away

releasing me from his own enchantment of time

cheating just so i can see what's beyond

this morning, god is whatever i want him to be.