the crows fly past my open window,
sailing on a grey-white sky
that looks like it could be parchment—
the crows look like they could be drops of ink
or swipes of pitch paint left purposely
for me to find when I looked outside,
drunk at nine in the morning.

and of course, god, who art in heaven,
hallowed be thy name,
did not leave these things here for me,
or if he did, it was on a day when
he was able to sleep in and his wife
didn’t argue with him over a cooling
cup of coffee.

god blesses those who are poor
and realize their need for him,
for the kingdom of heaven is theirs,
amen, amen, amen,
say the preachers
the parishioners,
and on the other side of town,
a mother of two sends
a bullet through her skull,
amen, amen, amen.

the crows are gone now,
flown away to visit other stories,
and the grey-white parchment sky
is like a ceiling—
solid, unbreachable,
with nothing but maybe
the dull piping of the universe
behind it.