PRAYER

 

 

As if he braced and pillared heaven

Or else, envisioned someone’s face,

The old man wailed mournfully

A cry that rose and left no trace.

Just an angelic crane had heard him.

It stood adjacent, but concealed,

Not daring, in the midst of virtue,

To interrupt his gray appeal.

It heard: not rapture and emotion,

But fate in ruptured hands… Alas

Perfection and the day’s commotion—

Are brief, and fleeting rather fast.