Art is the asking

of god.
Who would have us
whether she is,
He is,
laughing,
spewing wine through
labrick lips.
Or not,
and the answer
Is silence.

at the edge
we dance
loving steps
of reflective glory
oursleves unto ourselves
if ants could sing
octo
pi on the ocean floor
deaf to the songs
we dance
a flaky crust
dark blue
berry
eight slices
on the edge
we dance