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.