God unfurls His cloth
Over the tops of mesas
And asks us to dine.
Walk the lonely path
Desert rain hardens as sand
And holds up your feet.
Top of the mesa
Spreads out passed all horizons
If you’re small enough.
An old desert wind
Carries cries from years away
So you may cry too.
God is ascetic
He sleeps on a hard mesa
On the seventh day.
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