God comes to her in chokes and sobs. He is orphans and mobs. God draws on her. In scribbles and stabs. He is both artist and canvas. The pigment all we are. Pale hues in a fever of bone.
God tells her she is dying, but He doesn't know how.
All those cliffs gnawing on the clouds. instinct prevails in the absence of reason.
God is soft. A deflating pillow. As she rests her head. the numbers worry. While the words give chase. a quiet war seizes the word. in crippling increments.