- So, there You are,

staring out through the windshield

the fire you put in your hair waning

and your blue-edge-of-the-sky eyes fading.

Lips closed,

you have become moth's breath.

You're driving on U.S. 20 in your red Ford Taurus

at three a.m. on a Friday morning,

compelled to drive the speed limit,

searching for what You only know

but your right signal's been blinking

for thousands of years.



Reach your hand out the window

and pull the wind in.

Stop the moon

and run things backwards.

Do something.



You're driving all alone

while Man is stealing your stars,

putting them in little glass tubes,

now they're light bulbs.

"Be fruitful and multiply"

doesn't mean what it used to.

The Byrds have more to say

than any of your prophets.



The last great mystery

is the square root of negative five.

Don't you understand?

God, we need you.