We must be poets to hear from home
on nights like this. The moon
has a thousand echoes
in mud puddles all over town.
The old Mission looms behind life
like something so terribly lost
that life anchors to the loss.
Its aged walls wane to ghost at night.
Through stained glass dim candles radiate
like the soul of something ancient
through the continuance of itself.
Home is a deeper place,
submerged here by the landing of this world
we cannot have
God no longer thunders
from the sky, but whispers