God was

Horses before the barn burned down.

Expired lights at night.

A pile of books in the clearing.

Bodies the next day.

I’m on my hands and knees

Again in the scalp

Of the wheat, looking for a fold

In the fields.

The scent of heavenly spheres

On the back of the wind-borne blight.

This living hides the seam of an inward

Other time.

Where buildings don’t collapse.

The people there

Rising from their desks


Confetti out of windows,

Waving and smiling down at us.