If I were God
I wouldn’t bother about
who used my name in vain
or who was indulging in
a bit of adultery.
I’d look at my creations,
things I had set in motion,
and marvel at how
it all got away from me.
I’d brush the tips of my fingers
over the surface of Mercury,
and then, perhaps, my closed lips.
I’d run the tip of my tongue
around the calderas of her craters,
tasting the dust of her history,
and the trauma of impact.
If I could do that,
why would I bother with
the little shit?
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