Rain dusts the air
so faintly it can only be seen
crossing the dark leaves
of the ornamental pear.
With what’s still and what’s
moving in the seam
of mud between sidewalk and side
yard, I take my seat. One white
maggot inches in the dark
gash like the fingertip
of an infant. An entire congregation
lies still around it. I feel the tingle
of rain like a collar of cobweb
on the nape of my neck.
Whatever God I’m after, the worm
lord or child born, I doubt
I’ll find Him here in baby flies,
their inconsequentially tiny bodies
arrested on the beachhead after night rain’s bombardment.