Rolling the die

For some of us,

there is only God

or opioids.

.

Boxcars or snake eyes.

A thousand shares

of Microsoft.  Edsels.

This place:

how many eons

of volcanos everywhere

and one vast ocean

before the first mud

in the miasma

gave rise to the first

slime?

another couple billion

until the first cells

collided and divided, Sex!

What was God dreaming

all that time?

About Bach and Moses,

the Buddha, Whitney Houston,

and the rest of the divine?

French fries

and Seinfeld?

Krishna, Stalin, Cher?

I heard a poet once,

talk about a peach;

how much he enjoyed it.

How sorry he was that

he ate it because

it was something

that was meant

to be shared.

I think he was

one of those scorpions

trying to hitch

a ride across the river

on the back

of the frog.

However:

I tell myself,

not to forget

the canyon or the stars.

the warm afternoon 

sheets, the tongues.

the pages, one by one.

I went down

to the driveway

to collect mornings’

apocalypse

and ginger salmon recipes

and a robin sang:

Here I am,

love me, make babies,

kill me if you can.