of humans to care for, god planted
each soul by hand, but over time,
as his business grew, he got more
and more removed from the day-to-day
of his enterprise. Now he reclines
in a celestial hammock, nibbling meteors
like intergalactic hors d’oeuvres,
star clusters glittering like martini
glasses. His migrant angels oversee
his humanoid crop, plucking us
as we ripen. Ah, the rich taste
of a tormented soul properly marinated
in experience. The messages pile up
on his prayer machine. Centuries
since he’s repainted the sky.
—Jeffrey McDaniel
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