The Storm
by Josh Pearce
First there was a storm
of cops and batons,
streetsweeping with
menace with shotgun
but God was not in the storm
(brass and blue and wry
whisking out the rye
and brown and whiskey)
and then there was a hymn
of wind pushed up and down
the empty throats of lift
shafts in the in-
complete highrise
but God was not (him)
in the hymn
(their moan tuned on-
ly by chance—no-
one knows the math
to make this an act of God)
and then there were
people
fat crowds of fat tourists
craning their heads, crow-
ing delights
at this cathedral of man
and of course God was
not in the people
(who came only after the
storm cleaned the sidewalk
where they did shat their
flotsam and dropped their
jetsam)
and there was an all-
seeing eye around the
neck of each
(drawn to the storm like
worms to a rain,
like birds to worms)
a Leica eye, a Nikon
eye
but God was not (as
most people think)
in the panoptic Canon
then when the streets
were dark
and empty
there was (from the door-
way shadow,
where he'd watched all along)
a streetsweeper
who bristle whispered
tsk tsk
tsk tsk
and God was