By Jonathan Travelstead
The little god sits up.
Wet with moon, winds around their little finger
a frothing of clouds.
What I could do if only a little wind,
if only a little water.
Lonely with human story,
they hear an alien voice, their own:
Take a bit of cumulus & fashion earth.
Of cirrus make fire.
Fingernail a leaf ’s vein.
Mold bone into a collection of ribs
a scaffold on which to hang
a story of flesh.
