you were shaped 

like God 

took his time with you—

the hidden hand 

of the sculptor 

carved you with intent,

like it relished

the shaping 

of your lips,

the slope

of your hips.

but,

if this art

was by accident,

like 

the splattered canvas

of a sunset,

then I’ll call 

sheer randomness

my God,

and my savior—

for you are myth,

you’re poetry,

you’re music,

you are all things

divine.

who makes miracles?

I can’t say—

but, as far as they go,

you are mine.