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   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.