god is winding up the cows

& setting them down into the fields 
this morning. they are made of tin
& they wobble as they roam--
a mechanical mouth movement.
chewing on something.
someone pointing out the car window 
saying look cows 
& god with his long fingers 
tucking himself
behind clouds so he's not caught.
god with his new wind up toys.
god with his workshop &
a row of keys to wind each different species.
he's done with blood & skin.
he's done with organs. he loves 
the resistance of metal.
the thing is 
he created death by accident
like how when you spill paints
across a piece of paper sometimes
it looks like art & other times
it looks like a gunshot wound 
or another kind of the mistake.
he loved the shades of blood 
& the malleability of skin
& was thrilled boy bones--
shaving them into all kinds
of wonderful shapes,
his favorite being the pelvis
which he held up & wished the had
a father to show--
wishing he had someone to be
proud of him.
yes, that's why he made jesus.
carpentry is the closest human profession
to making bodies. jesus studied 
the making of bodies.
he wants the shift to be gradual.
not just one morning that whole earth
is full of tin creatures.
he slowly takes a few away--
a patch of cows,
a cage of rabbits,
a few lost deer.
the humans will be the hardest
to make out of metal.
he considers the uniqueness 
of each face. he leans down
to look at his work while part of the world sleeps.
with his long fingers he traces 
a nose, a cheek bone, a forehead.
he cries. he hates skin & he hates blood 
& he hates that his work 
always dies. he imagines painters
canvases growing sick & falling asleep for good--
sculptures no longer holding their postures,
going limp on their pedestals.
he shakes his head & thinks that they
will never understand & he will watch each fall apart
& float to the surface
of heaven's great algae covered pond 
as a flicker of soft spore-like light
barely remembering the body he crafted them
alone in his shop 
by the boiled light of the sun.