God is not an interference,


      some extra object


      clotting with dark


      among the branches of maples.





Or kicked up with the dust,


      mote in an attic beam


      of spring-cleaning sun,





or conjured up in the gray


      of a man's head.





But in the red 


      of a woman's womb,


God becomes blood


      and muscle and mortar of bone,





      the spoken, written conjunction


which fastens maple and beam,


      mote and mind, maid and man.