look at all the holy ways we seek you.
We crowd ourselves in church and temple and fill the singing air with pleas
that we might see your face.
We throw and are thrown over ocean to walk on well worn paths,
to sit in shade of Bodhi Trees, to walk in seas of self round holy rock,
to weep at wailing wall and carry cross,
we stamp our feet in mud and dance to true dreadlock prophets.
We look to our hands’ lines for signs of you,
but you are not in us.
We have dug you out.
So we look outward,
to the inwards of others,
to find you.
We cast knuckle bone and tarot,
we break bone and read marrow,
we have cut steaming human hearts from chests,
and heads from necks and piled the grinning skulls in pyramids.
We climb these to be nearer to you.
We stand on death for you.
We cast about in our enemies’ guts searching for you,
we tear each other open to find your proof,
press steel to vein to see you drip from throat,
crush chests under treads of tanks to you see you bloom
like rose from bud, in blood from lungs,
you who are all things, you are our guns,
we load shotgun shells in the smoking chambers of your breaking heart
and rack your halo head.
Our prayers are held in pistol grips and Hellfire fists
that swing on reaper wings
and swoop to bloom in fields of fire flowers,
but we find no proof of you in the holy bones
of children we have buried.
We have dug you out of them.
Oh purpose, quiet your weeping,
we are looking for you.