God, while pumping summer gas, applies the squeegee: Albany.

…man is the intermediary between creatures, the intimates of the gods.

Giovanni Pico della Mirandola

Of summer’s belly dancing heat waves

turning gracefully between the thighs

where tattoo of a Jesus

the side of your biceps I’ve never seen

show me your forever two-edged squeegee,

the final scum of this dim mirror,

what streaks remain;

You, mopping away with bludgeoned rag

here now amidst the noonday fumes,

You, who fill my empty tank, o holy God,

where fleshed, a flock of cherubim enshroud –

of pristine abulón,

blanched heavens painted wet;

Oh, Most Veritable Table Wine,

of dust made into water

spanning the crevasse

across my rearview window,

extending your arm,

the unmistakable finger of God.