A slab of blue cheese clings
to the Book of Job, page four hundred,
smelling of ancient basements and regret.
The mold is a map of a city
where nobody knows how to apologize.
You read it aloud while eating cold beans
from the can with a plastic fork.
The wind rattled the windowpane,
shaking a single, dead moth
from the ceiling fan.
God was probably just as hungry as we were.