God: As with Pigeons, They Avoid Us

What shall we do with the bodies,
all bleach all mud all smeared
in blood? Do we burn, lit aegis-like
their skin, so that black come,
ash come, and effluvium? Isn't
the fire too perceptible? A mark
as to say: here, bind hard our hands?
If we wash only and throw their bodies
into water, would traces be traceable?
Traces leads to cops. Bad guys.
It's always the same: the same hunt,
the same end: no trial, no listening to what we say.
As with pigeons, there's only ignorance.
Yes: our hands have killed and killed.
But here, in my palm, can you see
what I see: can you see that blood?
What we have done, we have suffered.
Isn't that enough?

God: A Sinner

If you'd count syllables any day,
any day I'd count, name tiredly
the stars: Pegasus. Orion. Procyon
and Procyon: which have burned out
and have not? At lake Como, I comb
the grass flat, as if in the starwatching
Earth's hands press me, my body, farther
from that cosmos I reach for, E.T-like,
as for doves, for any bird whose soft feathers
begs to be patted. If I have grabbed
a dove, felt that crushing of limbs,
have I sinned? If I made red the palestra
ground, can you forgive me? Yes, I have
killed, but any day these bleached hands
are like their faces. I have suffered.
Can you clean my hands?