God likes to hold me like a caterpillar.

I’m amusing.

He lets me crawl on his smudged street soot elbows to the ledges of his shoulders.

I peer out at his necklaces city lights from my hotel window. He reminds me that this is just another terrarium. Another mesh-wire bug box precipice.

He said being lost is something people invented to describe discovery.

He said I couldn’t actually get lost because there is no where to go but all that is him.

I crawl to his neck on the cab cruise to Time Square where nothing surprises me anymore and go back to my hotel where I can count the windows in the adjacent building like I always do.

I can’t help but think of how many stacks of buildings there are and how many times I’ve tried to describe the feeling of looking at them.

Dwarfed.

Helpless.

Eternal.

Lost.

On the eve of his collar bone where I try to pray but it always comes out a poem.

Our father,

who cloaks us in heaven

siren sung be they name

they kingdom thrum

in saxophone hum 

on 48th street as it is

in room

3567.