Pier 67

Pier 67
God lives in the smoker and the smoke.

In the fish, in the belly of the boat low

at anchor, in the lives at slipping free

from just-gutted bodies. In each fragile hand

they pass through. God lives in the thick

threads of luggage sown by hand, labored by hammer

and steam. In hands fluttering near, so near

the unrelenting press. In the sweat-dark cloth wrapped

about his head. In her hem taken in and in again.

In each stitch, every fresh life laid down, given, taken,

lost, the rainbow halo fading from the last black eye.

Look close and see the slick smeared blood, the rough fibers,

the sting of salted wind in which God lives

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