gold dusting

the flood waters come with lightning in their stomachs. 
they ask "do you have enough to get by?" "yes," i lie.
i put clouds in jars. look for gold dust on the sidewalk.
a museum of magnifying glasses arrives on two chicken legs.
i am looking for angels. then, today, the sofa gains
a heart beat & we become too sheepish to sit anymore.
i stand in hallways & corners. brush shoulders with demons. 
some say that gold once was the bones of gods. 
i find a grinder dangling above. my gods go willingly to dust. 
close their eyes the same way rabbits die: 
quick & full of relief. to be prey in your own parable 
is to always look up as if it might rain gold.

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