“I dream too much, and I don’t write enough, and I’m trying to find God everywhere.”
Pussy willows bloom. Predictive seasons
filter a fuzz of sunlight; valedictory
transitions hold onto their return maps.
This prayer is a practice of communicating.
A form of knowledge or disciplinary violence?
Experts debate experts into echoes.
Their meaningless noise fills sacred silence.
Our bodies desire ancient patterns,
a narrator’s reticence; sublime observations.