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.