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God

Sunlit garden. In the reflection of the glass
when you tip to drink, it seems
that you have your fingers wrapped around the sky.
The treeline wavers above, lost in wind and the Coke
as it smashes and breaks on cliff-glass.
Would you be God, then? Your hands
carving holes in the sky; your fingers
leaving black gaps in the cloud?
God sits in the sunlit garden, drinks,
and dreams of ugly things.
Written by annie-lang
Published
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