Tonight I shined my headlights
on God. He was standing in the road,
thin as smoke. I know it was him,
I’d know those hollow eyes anywhere.
When he jumped
off the bridge, I thought the trees
would catch him, but I found him later,
crawling along the guardrail,
a gash on his head, an old elbow-patch coat,
and one sock, mumbling something
in a language I remembered
forgetting. Now I’m in bed
and God is somewhere in the city
beneath the river, lighting
candles among last year’s fallen
leaves and placing coins in the mouths of fish.
I stare at the ceiling and God
looks down on me
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