Profanity

in this place long ago
lived people who carved
nine thousand names
for their god
into this temple.
every seed they planted they saw
as a spark of green prayer
that would rise 
as it sprouted and grew,
perfuming the eyes of heaven
like sweet smoke.
they could hear and see
voices and vision in the earth itself
back then 

and now you’re trampling that,
tourist.

don’t claim it doesn’t matter
simply because those
who made this place
and worshipped here
are gone.
tell the truth about it:
if all were still thriving,
you still would not care because
you don’t care.

you don’t care about
what is sacred because
you think of
your god
like something from a comic book:
merely a possibility.  

you don’t care
because back home,
your god has no face
in your soil.