Apologia for Prayer
“If I should die before I wake . . . ”
And it’s not as though staying awake
will save you. Think of those things
outside even Jove’s control:
the blast, the bullet,
the careening car,
funneling wind, voracious fire.
Think of Vesuvius spewing,
Pompeii’s people silent, silted.
Like boarding a train,
prayer is homage to the leaping hour.
It follows then that prayers unsaid
are a dance refused,
a gift unsent or put away unused,
the soul’s torpor on a hot afternoon
and no rain falling.