the prophet speaks against Rilke
i am too much in the world
to make each hour holy— too small
to be in Your presence simply.
i know my will and with hushed movements
draw namelessly away from Your immensity
too weak, too old to bear the tonnage
of Your image, Your praise
or Joban consideration. i want to unfold
in a closed space, clear of Your sight—
to describe myself in detail: a darkened cityscape;
a pimpled daughter; an iced glass of beer; a barge
towing nothing but itself across a placid bay.
Previously published in Dappled Things. Forthcoming in Promises to Keep.