[the world is a net]

the world is a net
and god, the fisherman,
casting fear and hope
into human waters
gathering the best of us
back towards ice blue eyes

god the fisherman sifts
through rubbish piles
with sun-dried, darkened hands
red as indian clay
exposed on the banks of summer

he lifts us up
bringing flailing flopping
human fish
to nose's length
for close inspection

god the fisherman, he sorts us to his will,
places us in this pile or that,
accordingly,
and we,
the piles of human flesh,
we grope back towards one another
in the darkness
of god's sleeping eyelids