at AcMoore 

i always run into god in an AcMoore
craft store aisle. you didn't notice him,
but he was perusing the little plastic 
animal figures beside us -- sticking handfuls 
of white tigers into his robe pockets. 

dad used to buy us each a plastic creature,
i was partial to the dinosaurs & you 
would sometimes get birds-- poised in flight.
the palm sized bald eagle bore her talons & 
my velociraptor left bite-marks on our forearms.

i wonder if there was a craft store before earth,
if maybe god went up there with a wad of allowance
to buy his first twenty statuettes-- humans with
their eyes still shut on the shelves. naming them
as he linoleum paced, back & forth.

i asked you & god what your favorite medium
is to work in. you say water colors & god says  
pastels, like me. we love the mess-- the thumbs 
marked with color. in high school we learned about
pastels by all drawing this same beach scene 

but i added blue to the sunset. is there a dozen
or so sunsets because of us? god smudges me-- leaves 
my face blurry & i loose track of the days.
he doesn't apologize for men who are artists never
have to apologize. back alone in his study

he sets the white tigers on the shelf. they
eat each other out of fear until only two are left.
god draws them between sips of coffee. me & you,
still in the craft store aisle. my own pastel
self is full of blended indigo-- i notice the

water in you. the bleeding the page.
i tell you that i love water color because i 
love having to start over again & again. i wonder
if god ever started a world of water color & gave up.
does it rest beneath his bed?

half-finished trees-- muddied brown leaves--
black: infectious in the creek. sky leaking
into our skin, we, sea foam green. if we should 
ever go there i would bring my plastic dinosaurs. 
let them go. drink the grass. disperse the sun.