So is tomorrow the day
I finally soak slowly into the ground
like a cold October sprinkle?
I don’t know, no one does.
You see it’s all serendipitous,
Your god is serendipitous and full of irony.
Evangelical nonsense tells me god lives
in Haight Ashbury sewing moccasins
for the Twelve Apostles seeking asylum
in a place that doesn’t want them,
three Cherokees, six Apaches, two Iroquois.
No one knows the Twelfth,
the numbers on his wrist are smeared.