There’s a chapel in Texas that rhymes Rothko
with God. If amnesty were another name
for God. Or blues in the throat. Or
gather without kneeling. And beside
the chapel, stone splitting water like a prod
for all the cattle in heaven. Latched
to the divine with a single granite
tooth. We put up stone pillars all the time,
or worse: We lift our soldiers skyward,
leave them aloft to gather pigeon shit
and rain. We made a myth for how their horses’
feet find the ground. Four hooves down?
He died in his sleep. As if hooves were
death’s true escorts, trundling
our passage across the river. Amnesty
knows where the obols go when the flesh
frees itself from bone. A coin
on the spine will ferry us nowhere.
We broke this boat. Nobody
is coming back for us.