Prayer
 

For all
the pain

passed down
the genes

or latent
in the very grain

of being;
for the lordless

mornings,
the smear

of spirit
words intuit

and inter;
for all

the nightfall
neverness

inking
into me

even now,
my prayer

is that a mind
blurred

by anxiety
or despair

might find
here

a trace
of peace.

Memories Mercies

Memory’s mercies
mostly aren’t

but there were
I swear
days
veined with grace

like a lucky
rock
          ripping
electrically over

whatever water
there was—

ten skips
 twenty
in the telling:

all the day’s aches
eclipsed

and a late sun
belling

even Leroy 
back
          into his body
to smile
at some spirit-lit

tank-rock
skimming the real

so belongingly
no longing
   clung to it
when it plunged

bright as a firefly
into nowhere,

I swear.