The God of the gaps stumbles down this street
battered by blasts, with cigarette butts, blood,
and sticky beer smearing his naked feet.
Time and rain have buried the pain in mud.
His only home is absence, these sidewalks
of vagrants, craters, and amputations,
with slabs now repaired, empty of the shocks
that dented the rock and maimed my nation.
Still, I cannot recognize his face here,
hidden among the hurt and huddled poor,
hard to distinguish in their dirt and tears.
So I seek him down the street, through the door
of the shrine where he sleeps beneath the sheet
of bread, the dark space where he and I meet.Dedicated to the community of Saint Clement Eucharistic Shrine
