Devon Balwit

How like Banksy, God is,

our hidden telomeres
programmed to shred
just when we become
sure of our worth, our
readiness for a climate-
controlled museum
cabinet, for an encomium-
laden retrospective,
gavel banging down
on a million-four,
our loved-ones gaping
at our disintegration.

Devon Balwit wouldn’t mind being the Banksy of verse.