Every Hour Here

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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