God comes to me just as clods of dirt

rain upon the roof of my bare house—

a sort of heavy pitter patter upon my soul

that sends shivers down my hollow spine.

the world folds over for a moment, i fall.

and still falling, my cries choked by inky cotton,

God catches me.

light peaks around the wretched, cracked blinds

and gives me sight to the infinite Gods glowing,

each His own atom, vibrating and electric

on sunlit planets, separated by expanses

of stilled air—i breathe it in,

filling my scornful lungs with God.

God wakes me sunday morning with dust

sighing in the windless room and He bursts

out of my chest in a cascade of broken exhales,

stirring the dust in a wild dance until

magnets pull my wet lashes together. they resume

their mindless swaying—i murmur a prayer

to the God in the dust.