God’s hand slices through the
sweaty summer air,
stuffs dollars in a plastic cup
and smooths wet, matted hair—
tender and then gone.
Did anyone else see that?
There it is again—
God’s hand punches a hole in daylight,
cups a couple cheeks, pets a dog
and waves at me
—at me? then swipes away.
I rush to the spot of manual apparition
and inspect
this punctured, shabby veil
It’s not textile divinity— it’s human I find,
a cigarette scented patchwork of
city lies and street emissions,
woven with noon-drooping resolve.
We’ve stitched ourselves in—
through this sickly mesh comes God?
Yes, there—
between fibers of mortality
I glimpse it.
God’s hand tickles the veil,
follows a sticky seam until—
pointing—
we’re finger to finger.
My hand yanks the veil
and now we’re eye to eye.
