We ride our bikes Around the circle in the cemetery, Weaving. I wave up to You on the Cross. Am I to come upon You suddenly like this forever? Happy, relieved that You are here And I can see You, I can feel you?
You are like the ticket-half I find inside the pocket of my old lead-raking coat. There all the time, all the while, Forgotten. I so often seem to leave You In churches And other islands. And on my beads Where I can see You, I can feel You.
I take the ticket-half And put it on the table, saying, This is God And He's here through my comings And my goings. But I walk past the ticket-half, I walk past the ticket-half. I walk past the ticket-half Just as I've walked past the Cross on our wall.
Our self-importance grows so dazzling we don't see You. But Gentle Jesus, aren't You always, Aren't You every hour here?
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