When you created the earth, I sat beside you drinking red wine.
It wasn't what I pictured earth creating to look like.

You held a vast field of reeds like clay in your hands, lapsing the corners
like melting ice cream cone dribbling down your fingers.

You said I drink too much. I said I'm sorry you feel that way.

I watched the sun set, if you can imagine the sun setting before it was created.
It looked like a black hole, only light enough to see all the colors it took to make it black,
the opaqueness being the sum of all things.