The lord is dead, a photographer says,
taking pictures of an abandoned church.
Who is he—the doctor
who writes God’s prescriptions?
If God were sick, the earth
would swallow itself like a pill,
the sky collapse in a silent
collision. If dead, the galaxies
would protest, demanding
an explanation for their existence.
But through broken windows,
the evidence of God grows
unencumbered by chairs
or concrete walls.
At night, I feel the pulse
of God overwhelm me.
And what does the photographer feel?
Above him, are the trees silent?
In the abandoned church, the ceilings
collapse and pews point upward.
Fallen foliage becomes palm leaves,
a dead raccoon the offering.
Along the floor, a new temple
collects: two green budding trees.