In wine-infused fevers I call on what I’ve been taught to call God
with the connectivity-driven certainty of hearing back.
Doom, salvation, heaven, hell; seventy-two virgins, Virgil’s tale–
just not the Not-Knowingness of the gut-sick dawn that remains
when the fires and phantoms are gone.
No words of the prophets written on newly remodeled bathroom walls;
No blighted bushes in suburban lawns or super-saver miracles in shopping malls.
Just a rain-soaked dawn, only me and the birds and the grass and the trees and
whatever answers I receive in these.