Faith is a long commute. Lots
of time to change
the station on the radio, time
to relive the past, to consider
the future the way
the boy in the bus station
standing by the trashcan
the afternoon the bomb went off
must have had time to consider
his own hands carefully in his hand. The road
is narrow and it goes
straight through the gardens of Paradise. Lots
of soggy godhearts dripping
blood on their bloody vines. Behind me
a beautiful blind girl carries a Bible
home in a plastic bag, while
before me, an old
woman and her old mother
drive a Cadillac over
the flowers slowly.
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