oh we ride our bikes along
the circle in the cemetery weaving, i
wave up to you on the cross.
am i to come upon you suddenly
like this forever?
i believe you are here.

and i can see you,
i can feel you.
i can see…see…
you.

you are like the ticket-half
i find inside the pocket of
my old leaf-raking coat.

there all the time all the while forgotten.
i so often seem to leave you
in churches
on other islands
and on my beads.

but i can see you,
i can feel you.
i can see…see…
you, oh.

i take the ticket-half and put it on the table saying,
“this is god and he’s here through my comings and my goings”
but i walk past the ticket-half
but i walk past the ticket-half,
i walk past the ticket-half
just as ive walked past the cross on our wall.

our self-importance grows so dazzling we dont see you
dazzling we dont see you
dazzling we dont see you.

but gentle jesus arent you always,
arent you every hour here?

gentle jesus arent you always
arent you every hour here?

gentle jesus arent you always
arent you every hour here?