Crosses

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.