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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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