Morning Prayers

The imperfections of my constellations Shining bright, blind me At the bottom of thick glass bottles And in shining foil packets I shelter from the glare of light With my blue knees and red, cold, cramped feet In dreams of the crackling sky and visions of the singing air I pretend, for a while, that I am whole, That I will release my false prophets The gods to whom I prostrate, bent constant over Fixed on the desperate hope of change Yet doing nothing, lying before an idol’s feet My whispered prayers go unanswered Clasped hands wring silently Each morning, my plea begins anew