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.
—My form against those at border—
[arbitrary line] [perish] knocking among other refugees —the islands —no one to help —thousands buried by water A butchered animal at my feet. Wolves howl. Soot falls from sky. The rescuers are never prepared. And we, here, amid a failure of images. Scrub a spot whiter than before. Demarcate before there is nothing left. Breach into white sand. The dead ache so.