If I could stick an arrow into God,
spilled free from bow or empowered gray
with spire, run whooping raw in thunder,
dab with relish those puddles of the kill,
	then I would never need
	to be any better than I am. 
Fair shot, he’d say, but you’ve 
killed a quarry you cannot dress.
        I will take with me his ribs,
and raise buttresses. Hew the pleura
to frame my vault. Relieve the Pantocrator 
        in soft minuscules of stain.
For my sake, he’d say, I hope
you’re kidding. For my sake,
        I hope I am too.