WEBVTT

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This is a recent poem and
perhaps not completely finished

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yet.

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It's called "Prayer".

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And it's an attempt to find
out or understand something

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about that gesture.

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Some nights a man is
scared so he locks his door

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against the dark.

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A negative gesture,
but it works.

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His wife rests easily.

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One night the dog barks.

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The wind replies.

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The fence protecting the
house stands up and surrounds

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like the unexpected enemy.

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So he prays by the door that his
knees might settle into place.

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As children we were taught to be
holy but with distance, ritual,

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when the ghosts were real.

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Though we misunderstood
until our knees ached,

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our parents blessed
our little heads.

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Where are we now?

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We tighten seeking the real.

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The stars once too
large over our heads

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swing closer now whirling
their white arms.

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We have no plans.

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We've grown hard a long time.

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Awkward again, we touch our
acquaintances as if they

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were friends and they respond.

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The surprise is mutual
but unrepeatable.

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Then the touch inside,
the voice moving

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among illusions,
high on our own blood

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and trusting it as
the wound opens.

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As adults we gave up
everything for this

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and find a mistake
to believe in.

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Accepted it's primitive, kiss
it until the God screams fools

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and you laugh.

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Kneel by the door.

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We must assert this, the
practical awaiting the summons,

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the improbable return.

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