when God's breath smells like whiskey,
and you know he's been carousing
at the furthest end of the universe
with those good-for-nothing angels—
away from his children who need him
to kiss their foreheads when the desire
to crawl into the eye of an aster
summons--the resurrected rain
lilies will whisper, "Do not ask,
not to die. Ask only to be ready."
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