On the mountain I thought of hope.
And made a cathedral with tall grasses
But eventually it blew away and left
only the congregation I made from stones.
I’ve seen it in the photographs
Hand over eyes.
Child.Death Prayer.
Making it’s way through tunnels and like
God trying to walk in oversized shoes
Now I’d like to see this God of yours
Stealing from his mother or hitting the
black dog with a big stick
I saw your floral patterned skirt grow
fat with air.
After the wind
Before the rain
Tapping the world with a pencil
Unable to find the right words
If you want to know the answers ask
those who beg from the beggars.
Because Moroccan sun will tear a doorway in the azure sky for us to flee into.
.
Malcolm Paul