On Twilight by Mary Ruefle

I read the poem of a student and in the poem God
wandered through the room picking up random
objects – a pear, a vase, a shoe – and in bewilderment
said, “I made this?”. Apparently God had forgotten
making anything at all. I awarded this poem a prize,
because I was a judge of such matters. I was not really
awarding the student, I was awarding God;
I knew someday the student would pick up his old
poem and say in bewilderment, “I made this?”, and at
that moment his whole world would be lost in the
twilight, and when you are finally lost in the twilight,
you cannot judge anything.