On Easter I gather my sins
and box them to mail to China.
The cold morning light expresses
the most delicate lack of faith.
Shadows crawl across the garden,
leaving tracks in soft yellow soil.
The churches in the village sigh
as their apotheosis occurs
in slurs of organ music. Cars
parked along the highway shine
like turtles basking in the sun.
My sins don’t weigh very much.
Wrapped in brown paper, this box,
addressed to the government,
will cost hardly a few dollars
to send by surface transport.
Whoever opens it will die
of shame, the lies and lecheries
flocking like moths. Did Jesus die
for such nonsense? I hope not.
Seated on a comfortable rock
above the Sea of Galilee,
he must have felt triangulated
between father and humankind,
must have stroked his beard and thought
that the shiny blue water
on which he had already walked
mirrored rather than embodied
a terrible depth. The package
prepared, I can waste the day
walking in the thawed brown woods,
leaving scent the Hound of Heaven
would have no trouble following—
its big tough rubbery snout
twitching with laughter, not rage.