Someday it will be that branch,
the dead leaves all a flutter
brushed by the sweep of
raptor wings you think,
that branch laden still
with leaf and lichen,
the sky blue and bare and wingless
the heat still seething through
the stillness of things, dripping
with the intimacy of peace of mind.
Some day it will be that prayer
written on the atmosphere, coiling
intention towards the ever other,
the wadded napkin tumbling
down the curb, the gutter
dry and silent as we melt
moment to moment, skin to skin
busy in the noisy nothing
fitted to our slights and fevers
our blessings always burning up.