How raw the rancor of a night sky

burdened by outpouring omens

prophesying the monsoons of mid-April

the sheets of transparent life

that will splash forth from clouds

when enough insults have stabbed

at the lofty, sandaled heels

of an absentee God

who lies in patient wait

to flick bubbling waves

upon the world’s naked beaches

with some feeble cosmic carnality

that urge satisfied only by

the casual flirtation with the odd star

or the gaping drool that he might grant a supernova

as he watches her pass

knocking over his glass of ambrosia

dousing us in torrential nectar

and rather making an ass of himself