Inputs + outputs
That’s what’s expected
A turn of degrees
And a force that’s directed
But love’s not a system,
a circuit, equation
Our God is designer
and doctor and agent
Our God is a father
Our God is a chief
He bankrupts the liar
and boycotts the thief
He brandishes iron
in place of his flesh
His shield made of comfort
His enmity, fresh
His gong is a whistle
It echoes its tune
To bypass the thistle
and rumble the moon
His arrows are stickpins
His bow is his gaze
How long the trajectory
Falling for days
His mountains, abyssal
His fountains of sand
The light from his breath
can’t be felt by the hand
His hearing, forever
His mouth, at a glance
Can detect even silence,
Direct and entrance
Were the truth to be raided
We’d doubt at its touch
The clues we debated
Were clouded too much
As he moves, we are aided
His action, our crutch
We’re commiserated
with laughter and such
The Replanted Writer 