God Of Many Crowns Poem by James McLain

There is a man, not him, to you I am.
Juggling broken falls,
I am the owner of her long white staff.
God has a broken crown,
and trees are flowing all around her thinking not of him.
Hers an eye on balanced tables, laughing face.
Red hot weeping from the staff.
Cold pouring water on the sand.
A white hot sun,
three hungry women standing there beneeth it.
Empty but without you on it.
Black wet speckled rocks brown,
and dried with blood.
Hand bones are scattered all around it.