I riffle through a paper bag
as the lights begin to dim
my hand contorts to fit its shape
bending in the dulling light
like an origami octopus
but I do not have eight legs

the crinkle of rough paper
grates the crumpled air
long and equal slices
a communion for the holy
gathered round in prayer

"For the bag formed us
made us
bred us from a mixture of gases
and sliced us with His loving paper hand
For the bag brought us here now
Here and now
Now and here"

(it remained unaware)

They chanted in a circle
and circled in a chant
blowing beds of burnt orange
in a dance of auburn incense

(it lay lifeless upon the granite counter)

and when the hysteria
like the sun
began to fade

and when they stopped singing
for the day
but promised to reconvene
the next
it did not know.