The Prayer

The Prayer

I put my hands, both
Through the air: digging without searching
There are ten things I did today and will do tomorrow
But will never admit having done

I wish there were always persons to bear witness to that
To fashion me robes with which to masquerade my conscience
To incite me to the rituals of purpose
When I’d rather just dig for nothings
Just me and the air and the places the two meet
Punctuating things
Looking for interlocution from this purely tactile
Suspended dance between myself and space
Like someone banging stones to make fire without much conviction

I pull my hands, both
Back out of the air: they are all drenched
In something I cannot see but can taste