This is a recent poem and perhaps not completely finished
yet.
It's called "Prayer".
And it's an attempt to find out or understand something
about that gesture.
Some nights a man is scared so he locks his door
against the dark.
A negative gesture, but it works.
His wife rests easily.
One night the dog barks.
The wind replies.
The fence protecting the house stands up and surrounds
like the unexpected enemy.
So he prays by the door that his knees might settle into place.
As children we were taught to be holy but with distance, ritual,
when the ghosts were real.
Though we misunderstood until our knees ached,
our parents blessed our little heads.
Where are we now?
We tighten seeking the real.
The stars once too large over our heads
swing closer now whirling their white arms.
We have no plans.
We've grown hard a long time.
Awkward again, we touch our acquaintances as if they
were friends and they respond.
The surprise is mutual but unrepeatable.
Then the touch inside, the voice moving
among illusions, high on our own blood
and trusting it as the wound opens.
As adults we gave up everything for this
and find a mistake to believe in.
Accepted it's primitive, kiss it until the God screams fools
and you laugh.
Kneel by the door.
We must assert this, the practical awaiting the summons,
the improbable return.