We saw God sleeping on time below boulder,
In a stone dead sleep, till priest would come
From the bus worship where God was a bus.
God was a stone sleeping in a mirror of sleep.
He was bus wearing tiny bunches of lemons
And chillies on a string, wearing off bus evil.
God was monkey amid stones, a painted hill,
The boulder’s aching red dripping with paint
And our foreheads would drip with red dots.
Our bodies went stone , with souls petrified.
All things were in boulders and buses where
God sleeps sleep missing in tired old bodies.