We, who live without gods,
out of the ordinary:
a roof over our heads,
food on the table,
the good health of our children.
A small star falling onto the back
of our hand
would hinder our grasp of things.
We do not need signs from heaven.
For to hold one, no doubt a scar would form, which in time
might blend into the skin.
And so become a tale told to lighten
the order of nights stretching
into the wintering heart.
The sky is empty.
Gods are not our witness.