If there is prayer, there is a mother kneeling, hands folded to a private sign. We recognize it. If there is a mother kneeling, hands a tent, she is praying or she is crying or crying and praying at the same time. Although it is recognized, the signals of it, it is private and no one knows, perhaps not even she, the content of the prayer, and perhaps its object. If there is a mother praying, she is on her kneels over some object, as one does not often pray in the middle of the room. One prays at the window or over the bed, the head bent slightly up or down, the eyes open or closed. This is a prayer for prayers, you know, a wanting something equal to a prayer, even though I am not a mother.
"Also Birds" [excerpt]
Here, a description of stalemate looking past shore. Here is the fragment, the stunted word store.
Life brings us to the dedication of the droning fisherman, all his preparations for autumn—thermal thigh-high rubbers...
Land trauma, spill snot from earth. A hole so deep on fire and imagined ends/endless. Glory arm reaches in.
Speed is distracting.
I've a faith prescription.
If you multiply geography by time you have right here.
Wake into a dream, or first glimpses of the afterlife, God just beyond the threshold, saying you can have anything you want.
To be held fiercely, a wave: be still.
Sudden awareness of the possibility of absolute loss. From mire, everything's riding on this.
Sunlight, our undertaking.
What it means to, in the absence of wholeness—side of the self, caught by glimpse. How could we have not seen this before?
My bright scarf, a masquerade. Hinter swan.