Sitting in a dark parked car
talking about God. We don’t
have to agree, but we do,
somehow, considering 
how differently we came

to these conclusions.
This doesn’t mean
that we are correct in our 
assumptions; perhaps it means
we’re just equally dull at cutting
through the God-fog.  

They are talking
of the glow from God-walking.
I am talking of the shadow
tied to all our ankles. Read me
one of your God-poems, 
they ask.  I do, and they
respond in kind. We speak

in a dark parked car
of how we each use land
to find God — it’s not abstract
to seek God, there’s a place in God
and God is in places and
location is holy and physical
is sacred.  The dark parked car
is still running,

I finally turn the lights off as it runs,
as we talk of where we each are going
in the next hours — onto a plane for them,
up the street to bed for me, finding our ways
from the God here to the God there,

taking God with us from the parked dark car
to the next place, or perhaps not — perhaps
that will be a different God there, or at least
a different face of the same God.
Does it matter which is true
when a dark parked car
has already been a temple in our world?