If There is Any Religion, This Is It

my fingers smell like rust
silly me, I left them in the rain again
it was the most comfortable option
in light, last night
of air conditioning and linened beds
I knew I could not lay breathe or sleep

so I took my fingers
to the corn husks and their children
tiny crescent weeds all quenched,
empowered in their dirt--now mud, ever phoenix,
rife with worms
beating their wings beneath the sod
to make the earth move

like the wind
that swept like kitchen floor
into my mouth
till I hiccupped, a happy dustpan
my arms like superman
brushing against trees
like the wings
on the worms
with the wings

look how my hands spin
like loose weather vanes
who totter and rattle
amidst Noah’s flood, Moses’ plague

look how my hands stretch
like stalwart weather vanes
who forever crane their necks
in search of discernment