If God has too many children

If God has too many children,
and some can be driven like pointed seeds
into the corner his all-seeing eye,

then I will go backroading like a drunk
in yellow gravel and its corrugation,
taking that corner where aspiring lovers

park at the end of the airport runway
ready to shudder in bedroom cars,

and down the road, past the boarding kennel
where a harrowing ball of blackballed dogs
serenade hard to the western plains,

and into that field of basalt bombs
and broken glass, and a ceaseless sky,
and a thistle-head perched on its hoary spine,

And then I’ll be fine.