It seems I’ve always been the praying sort,
If prayer is weeping along with FM songs
Upon the lonely road. That human heart
Will break in slow 4/4; the rights, the wrongs
Of childish lyrics; mélange of minor chords.
And all those setting suns I’ve spoken to
Intoning grace. Amen. Muttered words
That disappeared like smoke into the blue.
And birds, blossoms, breaking waves don’t know
They’re holy, perfect relics of a heaven
Existing only here, only now.
Just thank that winter moon, that summer sun.
Just thank those family photos on the shelf.
Just thank the stuff of stars you call yourself.
State Worker Catches Himself in a Lie, Then Realizes Truth is Far More Interesting
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