And therefore, all the more believable, That God sent a tiny angel with a chinstrap made of feathered jewels,

All night, God peers from his gilded case, nothing to do but wait for morning

God dwells in the thick darkness

that primal howl of grief, guilt, anger, fear at the telegram: “Sylvia died today.”

a golden halo around her black braids, and telepaths faith, faith, faith.

I tell my familiars everything but need to scream my head off in a Bible cocoon