Prayer as tinker toy, with the sticks
and honeycombs. I don't manage.
The world opens in one day and boy
is that exhausting, the way there's
sun suddenly and smells: the pear trees near
Ridge with their low-tide semen breath.
You could stay up just to make the weather
last, you could stay up writing. But the pull
of moving curtains in a dark bedroom
is as strong as the strong tea you'd
have to brew. Jesus, where did your life
move to? Florence probably, without you.
You like where you are, partly because of
the decay, the sofas dying along the train
tracks, the entrenchment, murals, onions
mustard and the rivers almost as old as
Belgian block. Just as peppery as always
the spring and still, you can't pray.
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