Once while carrying coal ash and used paint drums to the dustbin
I remembered it once more: there is
no difference between the common and the strange.
If there is any difference, it is only in ourselves, in our eyes.
For God, it is as common to create or to destroy worlds
as it is for us to write a letter or to read
editorials or the obit page. To himself,
God is no God. To ourselves, we are gods.
In this sense, there is no God. There are
eyes, eyes where a rusty oil barrel takes tender white roots,
and yesterday’s newspaper bursts into bloom
and moths swarm around it till dawn.
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