It seems that the few things I write these days, come out as supplications.

I guess that’s okay. I guess there’s not much else to do, but turn our broken syllables to the sky–and fall back on the Mercy that gives us both.

(Because without the Mercy, there is nothing.)

This is my November.


[song, for All Saints’]

Grant us grace
To look out of clean windows
And be discontent: no more
Suspended in unsurprise
At this breadth of repeated
Wonder; but independent, by
The eye’s acknowledged gravity,
To tumble down the elegance
Of limb and leaf, and wander
Under every sky
To Thee.

And grant us mercy
To look out of dirty windows
And go our ways, content
With the imperfect
Pause; the half-
Minute at the stoplight, sync-
opated by the flicker
Of pigeons (the whirl
Of unplanned perfection
Singing in the rhythm
Of their bones);
The sleeping sacredness…

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