Intelligent Design

Shiraishi called upon the great sky cock,
wanted an explanation, wondered, why
the echo of form without the wisdom,
why the bent wit without the timing.
Wondered, as I have, how a man, bare
upon the bed may rise as if in praise
but fail to be grateful for the gift at hand.
O dick of questionable devise.
O schlong of longing, as present
but ultimately unknowable as your
maker, I would worship at the fount
if I had more faith, if I knew your
weeping eye was on me alone.