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
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