ruin
how many hands did god
cut – makers
of coffeebeans & compost &
money, mahals
how many hands
fell
left carpets
of wool & ice & persian delight &
skin severed; centerpiece
shimmering
in the sun,
my hand reveals the brushwork
the veins & their decisions
i have written, here
my wonder & my questions
the stones i have thrown
in god’s koi
pond watching for ripple
to sunburst upon
this ruin
i stand
before.