The clattering of rain

is a sort of pagan baptism, the way

the glass shudders and shatters

beneath its weight.

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               (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.)

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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.

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               (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.)

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