The heavens that compose them

Tonight, the birds turn into stars.
They waver in the sky like candles
in the second-story window. Tonight,
the leaves shiver, wondering what
they’re in for. Behind the candle,
behind the curtain, over the table, leaning
on the refrigerator: you commune
with your phone, a new rite. You open
a conduit between the heavens and
your body. You listen to vibrations
circling the earth seven times a second,
bristling with metal shavings under
the fridge’s cooling coil. So religion
is made and lived, so the faithful drink
of the heavens that compose them, so
the birds, the stars, the leaves, the table,
the door, and you are all of one substance.