A New Creation After Rain

Somebody's ruined Bible
was my sign:
open to the first page
of Creation,
welded to a wet mass
of inseparable
Testaments, waiting there
at the milepost
I'd already chosen for my first
rest (like
the drifted debris of that old
flood, washed up
on the highway's mud shoulder—)
I swung down
my load and leaned it there,
turned back
to the traffic and struck
my old stance,
looking up only once and
around
for a rainbow.