I pray, not often, and I sing, not often:
But when I do, it rings through children’s ears
like candied air
And raps on doors cased in splintered oak,
fraying, saying, “Up!”
The morning hushes, rushes through the din
of after-night, liquored
As it staccato perches on the stoic days
that wrap me up once
Like the Alpha: sweetness stirs in dew.
Lay out before me, you blanket grasses green;
Race through wind, you bulbous rain,
frozen on the tongue
For I am a king this milky day, this Sunday
lit with shine and acid cold.
I say: “Begone, weeping trees, whose
tears prey on lids;
And you, quizzling birds swooping down
for salty, barren seeds,
Shackle yourself to nests, and feast in silence.
But my royalty deigns not to boldly order
down from a tilted diadem,
To scatter the ones who worship
the flea-bitten sky,
The frost-coated, the cloud-silky blue.
Which is the reason I shiver, drawn up
within the regal gold:
The king without a servant one.
And while the rain has dieted, strange
in thinness it becomes, choked
It carries on to drench the blanket grasses green.
And though I pray, I pray, I think
with too much fondness,
Too much thorough-going me
collapsing nature’s true sobriety
Which gives the sun its day.
And so, while it is Sunday, and I think
on God, and ask
I do not, picked by cold, receive
Anymore than daisies daily soak in sun
or that I will live a 100 years more.