Standing at the window,
I let fall a book of American sermons
when I see my neighbor
washing his Honda in the June sunshine
and across the street,
an old woman catechizing her roses.
On the radio
a disk jockey affirms his faith in Virgin Records,
though he himself is a separatist
who mostly worships at independent shrines.
I switch stations to hear
a scholar trying to describe the color purple:
it cannot be done, he finally admits,
though he calls it the existential center.
Carrying flatbread and coffee,
I abandon the house
for the sidewalk, where a block away
two kids are playing with a garden sprinkler.
They dance in rainbows,
free, it seems, of all catastrophe.