God, last seen in Milwaukee
angry, turning rain into coffee
waking up rats and the visiting team
stranding benches and warm
stadium seats. The surfaces of my city
turn snow into steam and we, debris,
huddle under tenements and towers
the wires that connect them, which are
the stitches in a blanket of rust.
And I went to the sea, the original promised land
looking for God’s wrath amongst its rooftops
and the murky eaves of waves and smokestacks
emitting while breaths and reflecting starlight
instead I find
the Word of God, masked like an anarchist
in a blown-up garage with a printing press
making copies of a magazine called The Gray Swan.
Bearded like Tolstoy in an attic lit by an analog radio
where seven young anarchists chat about melting polar caps
which is the lengthening of the sea, a
promised land expansion.