The clattering of rain
is a sort of pagan baptism, the way
the glass shudders and shatters
beneath its weight.
(I am on the roof, it says.
I am on your back, it says.
I am gnawing your bones for decades
until just hair and teeth remain, it says.)
The saints of the sky. The heresy
of hurricane. The power shutting off.
The path we walk, flashlights lit,
searching for life again as the storm
howls hymns through our gutters.
Oh, how I long for approval
in the windless eye of God.
(Where is the significance, it says.
Where is the meaning, it says.
Where is the flood meant to carry
that which is long submerged, it says.)