Easter morning in New Mexico:
the Son is risen on another day
blasting grace on telephone poles;
rows of crosses, rows of trebuchets
Cashed in my thirty day chip for a kiss
in an air-conditioned bar in Truth or Consequences
with a gameshow on, the stakes high enough to risk;
it didn't taste like I remembered it
chasing sundogs to believe; I miss you more than tongues miss pulled teeth
i drove four hours north, with one eye closed
to El Santuario de Chimayo
for a handful of dirt or a final roll;
my friend from back home said I should go.
The tourists packed in but no one talked
and by the looks of it, everyone could walk
so I swiped a crutch that was leaning against the wall
that the Padres have the maintenance guy keep stocked
chasing sundogs to believe; I miss you more than tongues miss pulled teeth
now it's growing wide around us, this feeling in these bones
as we shoot the wind with rifles and then bludgeon it with stones
the Lord came in the wind and the dirt--
where he sometimes can be found if you
squint; soften it to silhouettes--
His tessellated love is all around

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