Tanach

In the dark beside your body,
that curls in a fist around its dreams,
I wake with a sudden premonition
about the fear that grips your sleep:
The roof of the house, poised on a hill,
reaches up to the sky with fingers
of wild flame, as spectators watch from the lawn
the shingles breathing off into the night.
You run from room to room inside,
trying to find the last of the books
that passed to your shelves through a broken sea.
I'd fear the report of the morning paper
about whether you saved God
or who he saved if it was not all a dream.