I have become a writer who cannot tell
when the pen is my finger.

The author is not the speaker,
and the speaker has thrown themself in the rapids
pursuing indecent acts
with their reflection.
And the author has done the same,
demanding a cage match
with passing rays of light.

Walking home with a cheap messenger bag,
I saw the clouds split apart
in dusk's yielding light.
This was not
a shot through God.
He is not so human
to be mugged before my eyes.
And the clouds were not a sign.
God does not direct my life
and this world
while so many messenger bags
burst.

I stood under a routed sun
and disbanded heaven
as if the universe peeled back from me.
I was as alien as God,
and I needed the abuse
of water and stone.

At the rapids,
I traced a poem in the sand.
In this one
I am a speaker with a torn
messenger bag.
I've seen the clouds erupt,
and I have the answer.