backsliding
this miracle begins in the middle
lane: night, fallen: rain, snow, sleet, hail, falling
still: a loose crew of commuters crawling
home on the turnpike. now, here’s the riddle:
some One blows a bubble of rubber air
around my car, seconds before i brake
and skid, sideways and back, and finally make
a 360 into the shoulder, where,
untouched, the car stalls out and comes to rest:
who? i haven’t been a monotheist
for a while, seeking a transcendent path
called by many names: but after, in the grim
hush, i know two things: gratitude for breath
and whom i’d first learned to thank—and i thank Him.
