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