They sing songs about you at night, they meet in secret. The full moon is a ridiculous ally. Is it feasible to love the world and still know the richness of Heaven? We made preparations to invade the question. And your image was carved into marble floors by men who understood intuitively that time was just a proxy for the eternal.
When, brother, did the devil learn you were dead? Bad news accompanies men on motorcycles. A decade later one finally grasped the right way to make coffee. It is always "your move." God provides, man divides, and we all somehow survive.
There were always life plans, each a segment of some larger, rarely perceived, whole. The sentences were hard to find, the one didn't suggest the other, and all inferences felt burned and thus unreadable. I prayed beneath the Flowering Dogwood tree while the neighbor cursed his lawn mower. Visiting chickens at rest beneath the bird feeder. What is fear, what is love.
I prayed for icy clarity regarding direction, got a vague sense that I was wasting time with a particular dream, and otherwise just felt like God was a bit bored with the whole "give me a sign" thing. Weeds amongst the rhubarb, sunny blossoms on the tomatoes. We made love with a blend of urgency and fatigue, intent mostly for the quiet union of "after." Wrote this poem, made coffee, called it a day. That's prayer and it always ever was.