Your end was a lamp unto my path turned off.
Apocryphal to the good, I tied the tourniquet
of singing to my days—nights, the path of the moth
of a fallen question around the present, forget
and call it prescient, making a grand talk
of outspread flowers and owls: an empty net.
This prayer, it is like trying to throw a book
into a tree. My courage is like most ribbon—
for looks. Even into the soup I look
for a skinless easy mirror yielding skin
of the divine. If faith is hope outside hours,
then I'm a paperweight and where I've been
is an arrogance come to vanity—an empty tower.
A small paste of pitiful salt edges my smile.
Grimace of salt. Was I wrong about the power?
I must begin my dictionary of clocks in a while.
Starting with the Acacia pace of a patient love.
Between the owl and the flower lies I'll...
This poem is for Andrea Schneider, who was there at the beginning of my poetry. I miss her dearly.