No fissures of light shine from inside
but He has seen fresh fish bellies—all cream
and copper—slip from my hands back into the water.
He has seen the flint gray tide slink out and hide.

He thought he heard a car backfire,
but He could not be sure. This was good,
the house was silent, a sick mountain
lion crept into town, this was good.

Rabbits wriggling through wire fences good,
slipping out of their skins under blades
and thumbs good, coats soaking red good,
my knees gulping mud, sun sparking on water—

good, God said, I took clouds and planted them
in soft, red clay. I watered them with spiders’ threads
until they sprouted a stream translating into river
into rapids, good, lace-capped sliding good—my back

to the woods good.