A thousand years went by.
The Buddha sat under the Bo tree
rhyming. God burned in the sky
as of old. The family waited
for him who would not come back
any more. Who is my father
and mother? God fingered the hole
in his side, where the green tree
came from. The desert gave up
its saints. The Pope's ring was deadly
as a snake's kiss. Art and poetry
drank of that slow poison, God,
looking into a dry chalice,
felt the cold touch of the machine
on his hand, leading him
to a steel altar. "Where are you?"
he called, seeking himself among
the dumb cogs and tireless camshafts.