The dirt road cuts through
Naked vineyards dead of leaf cover.
Grotesque branches crucified and Jesus-like
On wires. Wires to keep the rows straight.
Embarrassed by their own nakedness
Desperate to be hidden by night sky
And the tule fog that rolls in from the Delta.
I know your shame.
I’ve seen things I shouldn’t have seen.
Where is the tule fog for me?
I can never hide.
Only find respite in places
Where I can walk alone.
I shouldn’t have seen Mother Mary.
I shouldn’t have seen her that night in the dream.
“What makes you so special?”
“Who do you think you are?”
Say the effable knaves
Yoked by titles such as pope, cardinal, and monsignor.
So I walk the fields
Singing ‘Surfer Girl”
To an ineffable Mary, Mother of Jesus.
Not a man. A woman.
Sprinkles fall from dark Lodi skies.
A sweet scent rises from the soft fertile dirt
Pocketed by the new rain.
Soft dirt reveals so much.
Quick to mud.
How can I not moon for someone
Having been held to the heart of Mary
Having seen Playboy centerfolds.
Beauty for one is beauty for the other.
I’d rather sing to the day’s hidden moon