What do you know of God? A scrap
of matted wool stuck in the door-frame,
too small to trick the silver latch.
But mostly, the invisible steam
trapped in its glass pot, bubbling water
struggling to the surface; although,
your punishment will be the burn
when the lid is lifted.
So spout your proud extinction, the always
of what-frightens-you does not exist,
could merely be a dream.