There is a God

who makes it rain on women dressed in white

and a God

who clogs the veins of plumbers. There is a God

who rides horseback from the sun

to the furthest star, and a God

who is afraid of ponies. There is a God

inside a God inside a God inside

a sparrow's egg, and a God who abhors the scent

of broiled rams: a God of Spring and falling

things, and a God who untangles

the ribbons of incense smoke

that rise from trailer parks

on the Mojave's fringes.

There are a trillion Gods

warring over the centermost cubic inch

of the earth's core, and a trillion others

trapped inside a pink lipstick tube

at the K-Mart near Penn Station. Jenny McMahon

of Jacksonville will beget a God

who will come to rule the world's spiders.

You have a minute God

always on the tip of your tongue, and a few others

navigating the volutes of your cerebellum.

There is  a snarled God who stays put

on a much larger God's credenza, holding his deeds

in place; there is even a God who does not like

your mother's lasagna. My baby's driving

from Ithaca to Miami tomorrow morning.

She has little dough and bad tires,

cannot read maps, has a blinding migraine,

fears darkness

and is every psycho's wet dream.

Oh peerless unassailable

gut-churning goosepimple-raising God;

oh you who can annihilate all

with but a sigh, and bring it all back

with a wink: run

your enormous and enormously subtle

hand down her back. Keep her car

and brain intact. Let not that inferior myriad

impair her; let no god that is not God

impose himself

between your will