We’re going to the backyard to look for God,
I say. Double-layer your legs
and zip your hood. We’re going to look
for God in the cold
wind. We’re going to hang out with the dogs.
Leash the rowdy one to the swing set.
Stray within his reach and he knocks you
down in patches of snow. He goes in
for a kiss with his wet snout. I brush off the crystals
caking your rear end, airlift and release you
elsewhere. We’re going to look for God elsewhere,
I say. Still the icicled swings lure and ensnare.
Wind gnaws our noses, your cheeks furnaced red
from within. Paws knock you down again
into seashell shards of ice.
We’re going to look for God in the ice, I suggest,
sheets of cracked ice on the back patio.
Stay away from the dogs.