by Michael Tusa

Crosses sitting on the hillside 
Crosses indifferent to the wind

Crosses hanging from the awning 
Crosses hanging from within 
Crosses in the street
Crosses in the ground
Crosses at night alone on the porch

crosses his feet 
Crosses at midnight 
Crosses in the deep diamond dark

Crosses in his eyes 
Crosses in his heart

Little crosses 
Big crosses 

Crosses sitting on the hillside 
Crosses in the church
Crosses in the park

Crosses in jail 

Crosses all over town 

They are hammering heavy white
Crosses on the high hillside
In the rose's rain 

He has crossed his little black fingers
And his blood runs red across the white painted pores of wood.
The sun goes down.