summer 14

last february
when i thought about god
i pictured her the way wind made grass dance.
we spent months on whiskey diets, hoping to feel something
again.
last spring i
prayed to the waning moon, begging her to teach me
how to revel in transition;
how to see the folding in of oneself
and call it good.
thoughts of god in july
looked like hot showers in the summer
smoke from the neighbors
and hating the cliche of only crying when it rained.
walking felt like sleeping.
too many people were dying.
when i thought about god in the fall
i picture him
buying packs in liquor stores.
gum or cigarettes today, sir?
i remember her sharing boxed wine with the family cat
and all i could think about was the eucharist.
throat laughs through pursed lips, last november we
had recurring dreams of library hallways
on they go, and there they crumbled;
too many people were dying.
how many today, ma’am?
chronology is exhausting and names lose meaning but
dancing grass and july showers keep showing up in poems
and where you least expect it
like in the rainy backseat of a rental car.
god, they really get around
but i still hate the cliche of only crying when it rains