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The woman wears her skin 

like a bathrobe.

She stands in the middle 

of a golden field,

weeping fresh water. 

The sky 
blows in more snow,  

a breath 
from frozen elsewhere. 

There is a storm 
raging 

inside the silent rage
of the storm,

inside God’s eye, 
unopened.
 

‘"With your pictures you apparently want to arouse in us a feeling of having to swallow rope or drink kerosene.”
– Braque to Picasso

Maybe it’s as simple as this: 
Maybe God’s hundredth name is His face.