Tell me again why it is that I love
asphalt in the rain,
the obscene color swill of oil-slicks
the pressure of the cars outside my window
the immature green genitals of springtime
the look of a man who is trying not to cry
the way light falls over the course of hours,
always heaving up again with tired stubborness.

I am like that light
throwing up words
again to watch them scatter

never was quite satisfied
with the stone images in churches

thought I'd take the sadder way
and re-invent God myself.

as if I could baptize everything in my
cock-eyed vision of grace.