Nothing

could stop me as sadness defined home,
the layers of oxygen
and this exception of
two women on TV walking on water,
garbed in monk’s robes.

Once lame, a small girl walks
to where a quarter moon’s
smile illuminates
her face for a more
captive audience craving prayer,
that weekly divine caught on camera.

God-benign trinity, who
still believes in miracles on bare feet before
us, accepts applause,

cat calls, and more
clapping–busy God has embraced this
stage left event, the act:

Coffered flood
of coins, faces crumpled like tissues
in my hand, clock-struck

and my sleep,
broken by a litany of grief. This is not
the hungry body’s

work, demanding nothing from those
who still believe in

miracles.