I.The sky is a rolag, carded with grief and dew.We were made in the image of our dead – because God relies on recyclingto keep the earth going around the sun.         II.Each of my father’s eyes is a globe of brown worms,or bulb of sperm cells swimming towards an egg in search for light. He no longer reads the Qur’an without his glasses.This ritual of whirling in the first rain has no origin story.         III.Today, the sky looked freshly molded from clay,I jumped inside the rain with my hands raised to the sky. No one stays in it for long, so it doesn’t unmake the scarson our heads – healing and almost forgotten.         IV.The puddle sometimes gets large, it drags a child away. Everyone lost to the water was recovered without their eyes,that’s how I know that fish love to swallow whatever resembles a lamp.