silence pushed through
my bedroom window
from the desert, deluge
of molten light, room
overexposed: form of dresser
on the left, bed, my father on the right,
his back to me, he fixing
the window latch, immersed
in his devotions to repair as if
it were any ordinary Sunday.
I was 9 or 10, transfixed by

burning
bush
pillar
of
fire
love

Did my father notice it too?
sodden with mercy
I lied down, intuiting
one cannot see God
and live.