It used to be
a stream of whispered wants.
I would braid my tiny fingers,
batten down my eyelids, and recite
my litany of lack.
I tried that. It didn't help.
So instead I try
sitting.
Sitting still, still, still
"Be still and know"
what? Was that..? What God
sounds like
like pickled beets halved
with a spoon
like dollar-fifteen dozen eggs
curled up crateside
like 4:30am tap dancing dog toes
whimpering for a patch of grass
and Saturday errands graphite striked
off a list, Sunday creaking weekend sighs
like monthly budgeting
this time for stillness
to hear slow whooshed blood serving
platters of O2 to muscles,
sinews, old sins new since my time
beaded up, slinks down my windshield:
a whispering stream of H2 with O
God
regret me not these
breaths. O God! that you would
"Be."
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