Divinity
It is raining kitchen sinks.
Porcelain, brass, and steel fixtures,
falling,
end over end,
out of billowing, glossy catalogues.
This is unfortunate for the albino children,
who I created yesterday,
the ones who sing in colors.
The objects slice through the shuddering, prismic cloud,
the death howl the children make,
as they are torn apart by my whim.
In the future I must take care,
when starting sentences with "I Wish."