I’m writing to God on a dinner napkin.
In my bratty ennui,
deeply moved in perfunctory ways,
smug in the dream that history has unfolded in my favor,
I’ve been alarmed at violence, but not sparked.
Rattled by injustices, but not awakened.
I’m writing this half drunk.
I don’t believe in the rapture,
but I feel the crust of the Earth, and the firefly souls upon it.
Your delinquent children, throwing stones.
Throwing prayers away in bursts of shrapnel.
I’m bracing for something.
We are calling out
from within your holy architecture,
vibrant in reverberation,
waiting for the echo back.
We are all sitting
in lust and terror of the answer,
waiting for the sky to crack.